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THE DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 
AS A DRAMATIST 



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THE DEVELOPMENT 



OF 



SHAKESPEARE AS A DRAMATIST 



BY 

GEORGE PIERCE BAKER 

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN HARVARD UNIVERSITY 



THE MACjMILLAN COMPANY 

LONDON: MACjklLLAN & CO., Ltd. 
1920 

A 11 rights reserved 



,3s 



Copyright, 1907, 
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 



Set up and electrotyped. Published June, 1907. 






Nortoooti $resa 

J. S. Cashing Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 

Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 



®0 
BARRETT WENDELL 

IN GRATITUDE FOR MANY YEARS OF 

STIMULATING COMPANIONSHIP AND UNREMITTING 

ACTS OF FRIENDLINESS 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER I 

PASS 

The Public of 1590 and Shakespeare's Inheritance in 

Dramatic Technique 1 

CHAPTER n 
The Stage of Shakespeare 36 

CHAPTER III 
Early Experimentation in Plotting and Adaptation . 100 

CHAPTER IV 
The Chronicle Plays 142 

CHAPTER V 
The Art of Plotting Mastered 181 

CHAPTER VI 
High Comedy 221 

CHAPTER Vn 
Tragedy . 255 

CHAPTER VIH 
Late Experimentation 286 

APPENDIX 
Contract for building the First Fortune Theatre . 315 

Index 327 

vii 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

London in 1610. P. D. Hondius. From Speed's Theatre of 

Great Britaine Frontispiece 

FACING PAGE 

London in 1588. Map by William Smith, in British Museum 18 

The Tower in 1597 26 

London in 1604. From a map by Ryther .... 36 

Two Types of River Palaces: Baynard's Castle and 

Arundel House 40 

The River Palaces. From the map of Antony van den 

Wyngrerde, 1543 46 

Lambeth Palace and Whitehall from the Thames . 50 

The Strand, from Charing Cross 60 

Ludgate 68 

The Blackfriars Theatre. Reproduced by permission 

from the collection of Henry Gardiner, Esq. ... 78 
Bird's-eye View of St. Paul's Cathedral and Neighbor- 
hood 85 

The Facade of St. Paul's, with St. Gregory's Church. 

V. Hollar 95 

The Nave of St. Paul's Cathedral. V. Hollar . . 105 
The Yard of the Chapter House at St. Paul's Cathedral. 

V. Hollar 115 

The Original Fortune Theatre and the Facade of the 

Second Theatre 125 

St. John's Gate and the First Theatre in London, 1576 135 

ix 



x LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING PAGE 

The Bankside Theatres circa 1600. From the so-called 1657 
map. Though this print is dated 1657, it is much like that 
of Visscher in 1616, and certainly shows the position of the 
Bankside Theatres circa 1600. The original of this map is 
in the Londinopolis of James Howell, 1657 .... 155 
The Rose Theatre and the Swan Theatre . . . 165 
The Second Globe Theatre and the Hope Theatre . 175 
Three Unreliable Views of the Globe Theatre. All 
three views are imaginative developments of the theatre as 
seen in some map like that of Visscher (1616) rather than 
careful reproductions. The first and the third are from 
prints originally made in 1815 for the Encyclopaedia Lon- 
dinensis. The second is a view in the Crace Collection at 

the British Museum 180 

An Early Type of Stage. From a print in the Grenville 

Library of the British Museum 190 

The Four Swans Inn, and a Play in an Inn- Yard . . 200 
The De Witt Drawing of the Swan Theatre in 1596 . 210 
Cross-section of the Elizabethan Stage. Adapted from 

the plate in Brodmeier's Die Shakespeare-Buhne . . . 220 
The Stage of the Red Bull Theatre. From Kirkman's 

Drolls, 1672 230 

The Stage of the Elizabethan Stage Society . . 240 
Elizabethan Stage used at Harvard University for 

Revivals of Elizabethan Plays 250 

The Same, with the Curtains Drawn .... 260 

Two Academic Stages, and the Hall at Hampton Court. 
Comparison will show how readily the end of the hall could 
be made to provide both the main stage and the upper stage 

shown in the title-page of Messallina 270 

An "Elizabethan Stage" showing the Use of a 

"Painted Cloth" 280 



THE DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 
AS A DRAMATIST 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE AS 
A DRAMATIST 

CHAPTER I 

THE PUBLIC OF 1590 AND SHAKESPEARE^ INHERITANCE 
IN DRAMATIC TECHNIQUE 

MUCH current appreciation of Shakespeare's plays 
treats them, both in bulk and in quality, as the 
only really significant part of the Elizabethan drama. 
By implication, at least, Shakespeare is held isolated 
by this relative insignificance of his contemporaries, 
the completeness of his original equipment, and the 
swiftness with which, in the years between 1590 and 
1612, he took the foremost position as playwright. 
This is, of course, wholly uncritical, for it neglects a 
commonplace as true for the fine arts as for mechanics ; 
namely, that almost never is the originator the per- 
fecter. Any great work of art is neither accidental 
nor wholly individual. It is the product of the in- 
dividual reacting on his inheritance of technique and 
his social environment. It marks the highest stage 
in some artistic evolution. In any genuinely critical 
study of Shakespeare's work these trite facts should 
never be forgotten. 

HI 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

In sharp contrast with this attitude which overlooks 
a commonplace of life is the position of a small group 
of would-be critics who maintain that Shakespeare, as 
dramatist merely, was little more than a man of re- 
spectable initial gifts and copious industry, who wrote 
always with his eye on the public and who had no idea 
of the meaning of that modern literary shibboleth, " Art 
for Art's sake." That is, this group, who may perhaps 
fairly be called hypercritical in distinction from the 
first, the uncritical, group, are busy commonizing even 
Shakespeare, just as we have already had the " real 
Lincoln" and the "real Washington." 

Truth, as usual, lies between these two sharply con- 
trasting views. On the one hand, any artist, no matter 
how great his genius, if he is ever to be more than an 
infant prodigy at first and later one of those pieces of 
human flotsam and jetsam, the quondam genius who 
has failed to arrive, must master the technique of his 
art. Shakespeare mellowed even in the powers with 
which he was originally endowed. He acquired powers 
he did not originally possess. He substituted better 
for poorer methods. On the other hand, Shakespeare 
knew better than any other dramatist of his day the 
real meaning of "Art for Art's sake," for time and 
again he moulded his material, not merely to accord 
with public taste of his time, or even, as was the case with 
Ben Jonson, so as to conform to standards drawn from 
the Classical drama, but so as to satisfy some inner 
standards drawn from his own increasing experience 

02] 



THE PUBLIC OF 1590 

or from that constant beacon of the highest creative 
minds, the artistic conscience. 

Before, however, I begin a detailed examination of 
the development of Shakespeare as a dramatist, there 
is another fallacy in current judgment of drama which 
I should like to dissipate from the mind of any reader. 
It is the idea that there are certain standards by which 
the plays of any period may be declared good or bad 
without regard for the time in which a play was written, 
the public for whom it was written, or the stage on 
which it was acted. Year by year intelligent people 
endeavor to criticise and appreciate Shakespeare, 
Racine, Congreve, Goldsmith, Henrik Ibsen, Mr. Pinero, 
Mr. Clyde Fitch, and Mr. George Ade by some common 
standards — with results that would be amusing if 
they were not sad. For is it not always sad to watch 
people enthusiastically doing what must end in futility 
because impossible? Mr. Pinero, in his illuminating 
address on Robert Louis Stevenson, the Dramatist, says : 
"The art of the drama is not stationary, but progressive. 
By this I do not mean that it is always improving; 
what I do mean is that its conditions are always 
changing, and that every dramatist whose ambition 
it is to produce live plays is absolutely bound to study 
carefully, and I may even add respectfully — at any rate 
not contemptuously — the conditions that hold good 
for his own age and generation. . . . One of the great 
rules — perhaps the only universal rule — of the drama 
is that 'you cannot pour new wine into old skins V" 

[3] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

Think for a moment how little we care for the suc- 
cesses of the Restoration comedy, whether drastically 
Bowdlerized or not. Remember that of all the plays 
popularly approved by the eighteenth century in 
England only three — one of Goldsmith and two of 
Sheridan — hold the stage. And how outworn seem 
the ideals that dominate the Robertsonian comedy 
which was the rage of the day in the late sixties. 
Mr. Pinero's statement must be an axiom of any sane 
critical study of the drama. 

Yet the feeling of the critically untrained public 
that there should be certain final and permanent stand- 
ards by which values may be apportioned to plays of 
different sorts and different periods has an element 
of truth in it; namely, that throughout all periods 
plays show common properties which distinguish them 
as a species of composition from tales, essays, or poems, 
— the differentia which make them the species play, 
in the genus fiction. These common characteristics 
are, of course, the fundamental principles in dramatic 
composition, for without them the play could not be a 
play at all. For these the public has a right to look 
in any play, and when, as with some of our modern 
plays, for instance Maternite or Les Avartis of M. 
Eugene Brieux, audiences declare the performances not 
plays at all, but dramatic essays on social questions, 
they are, consciously or unconsciously, recognizing the 
absence of these fundamental differentiating character- 
istics. But these common characteristics are relatively 



THE PUBLIC OF 1590 

few as compared with the characteristics of the plays of 
any epoch or of any writer which result from the public, 
from the stage for which they are written, and lastly 
from the individual genius of the workman. What 
makes current judgment of plays the hodge-podge of 
contradictions that it is ; what makes even a self-respect- 
ing individual who recognizes this confusion fall 
back, complacently or distractedly, according to his 
temperament, upon the weakest standard of all, "I 
like it because it pleases me," is that just this dis- 
tinction between the permanent characteristics of the 
form, drama, and the ephemeral differentia of plays 
belonging to different periods or different nationalities, 
has not been widely understood. Indeed, only thought- 
ful students of the drama, probably, could name 
offhand these permanent characteristics common to 
all plays as plays. In imitating the Shakespearian 
drama, it is just because we have not kept this funda- 
mental distinction in mind that we have too often 
produced, as in the plays of Sheridan Knowles, mere 
feeble reflections of Shakespeare's splendor foredoomed 
to only a momentary success. The imitators forget 
that no play can have lasting popularity which neglects 
the prejudices, tastes, above all the ideals of its own 
day. That we find delight in Shakespeare's plays 
to-day does not alter the fact that had he written for 
us he could not have written exactly as he did for the 
Elizabethans. Therefore, to judge his plays technically 
by other standards than those of the time for which 

[5] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

he wrote them is illogical, and likely, as in the case 
of the Restoration critics of Shakespeare or Mr. G. B. 
Shaw's strictures more recently, to throw more light on 
the critics than on their subject. 

Why it is that the drama cannot at any time wholly 
break away from the prejudices, tastes, and ideals of 
the public for which it is written, M. Edelstand Du 
Meril has clearly stated: 1 "In the drama the per- 
sonality of the author is effaced even more completely 
than in the epic or other forms of poetry. ... It is no 
longer he who speaks. . . . All the figures return suc- 
cessively to life, a little more talkative than they were 
originally, and express in orderly sequence their feelings 
and their desires. . . . Each of the dramatis personae 
acts for himself and speaks according to the ideas and 
sentiments that are peculiarly his own. You assist at 
a genuine representation of life, and follow step by 
step the consequences of acts; you see the characters 
developing by vivid and convincing action in which each 
will is expressed by its acts, each act is related to its 
causes, and is brought to completion in its first results. 
But the inspiration of the work hasn't at all that ego- 
tistical spirit, disdainful of the outside world, which 
characterizes the other forms of art; this is no longer 
a monologue of the poet singing to himself for his own 
pleasure ; this author tries by what his drama represents 
to awake in others the poetical ideas which have 

Adapted from the Introduction to his Histoire de la Comtdie, 
Vol. I. 

£6] 



THE PUBLIC OF 1590 

inspired him and are for him real. . . . The serious end 
of the drama depends, then, upon the ideas of the poet 
in regard to nature and the destiny of man, and his 
ideas are intimately bound up with the religion and 
the philosophy of his time. ... If in all the persons 
more or less imaginary that the drama summons from the 
past and revivifies for a moment in the life of the theatre 
the spectator does not always recognize himself even 
as he does in one of those mirrors which exaggerate 
objects without changing their nature, if through his 
own feelings he does not understand the passions which 
disturb them and the miseries that fall upon them, he 
will be an indifferent witness to griefs which to him will 
be strange enough. There is much more egotism in 
pity than is supposed — an extreme admiration most 
surely kindles sympathy. ... If a dramatist doesn't 
wish to employ his gifts in an effort condemned to 
failure in advance, he must, — and this is one of the 
first duties of the artist, — he must consider his public, 
respect their sentiments, and skilfully conform himself 
to their ideas and customs.' ' Nor, as the following 
chapters will show, is such desirable pliability at all 
synonymous with truckling to one's audience. 

From what precedes it should be clear that rightly 
to estimate the accomplishment of Shakespeare as a 
dramatist, one must first understand the public for 
which he wrote, know what was his inheritance of 
dramatic technique, and be able to visualize his stage. 
Then one may with some accuracy distinguish his con- 

[7] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

tribution to the development of the drama, and may 
even succeed in differentiating between his effect on 
the permanent characteristics of the drama, and any 
changes of his which were necessarily ephemeral because 
they resulted from the impact of his genius on such 
temporary conditions as his public and his stage. All 
this differentiating should, too, leave one clear what are 
the common, permanent properties of plays as plays. 

Inasmuch, then, as the public plays so important a 
part in the development of the drama of any epoch, 
what was the public of 1590 like? I choose the date 
somewhat arbitrarily, for it is likely that Shakespeare 
was in London by 1586 and connected with the stage. 
However, we really know little or nothing of his London 
experiences before 1590; we surmise merely that he 
first belonged to the Earl of Leicester's players; that 
after Leicester's death in 1588 he became one of My 
Lord Strange's Men, and that he acted at the Theatre 
in Shoreditch. Moreover, the trend of later criticism 
is to place his earliest extant plays after 1590 rather 
than before that date. Finally, what follows would 
need little if any modifying for the earlier date. 

The first point to remember in regard to the public 
of Shakespeare is that it was relatively very small. 
Within the walls, which ran from the Tower of London 
around the City till they met the Thames again near 
the site of the present Blackfriars Bridge, and in the 
regions just outside the walls into which the growing 
City had already pressed, there are said to have been, 

[8] 



THE PUBLIC OF 1590 

roughly speaking, a hundred thousand people. In the 
village of Westminster, centred about Whitehall and 
Westminster Abbey ; in the villages on the higher land 
about the City ; and in the Bankside, on the South wark 
side of the Thames at the end of London Bridge, there 
may have been another hundred thousand persons. 
This second hundred thousand must, however, have 
fluctuated considerably, as the many inns on or near 
the High Street of Southwark were full or not. That 
is, the public for which Shakespeare wrote is not com- 
parable to that of any of the leading American or 
English cities, but rather with those, by population, 
of the fourth class. He wrote for Birmingham rather 
than London or Liverpool, for Providence or Detroit 
rather than New York or Chicago. It is true that 
often when the plague raged in London, and during the 
summer season, the London companies made provincial 
trips ; but there is no evidence that Elizabethan mana- 
gers paid any more deference to the judgment of pro- 
vincial towns than do our present-day managers. 
Though the regular theatres in 1590 were few, — only 
the Theatre and the Curtain, built near together in 
1576-1577 in Shoreditch, — numerous inn-yards pro- 
vided for the companies of men who could not act at the 
two theatres. 1 In order to limit undesirable competition, 
to improve the quality of playing, and to prevent some 

1 The question has been raised whether the Rose Theatre was not 
built in the decade before 1592, the date usually given. The slight 
and vague evidence at present available cannot settle the matter. 
See under Rose Theatre, in Chapter II. 

[9] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

unworthy occurrences of the past, Parliament had passed 
an act in 1571 requiring players to procure from a peer 
of the realm or " personage of higher degree" a license 
to pursue their calling ; if they had not this permit, they 
were to be adjudged rogues and vagabonds. 1 Under 
these conditions there were in 1590 the companies of 
the Queen's Men, of My Lord Strange, the Lord Ad- 
miral, the Earl of Sussex, the Earl of Pembroke, and 
the boy actors of the choir of St. Paul's Cathedral. 
The last acted somewhere about the Cathedral precincts, 
probably, as will appear in the next chapter, in the 
yard of the Convocation House. That is, theatrical 
life in 1590, unlike that of the next decade, in which it 
was transferred to the Bankside region, centred either 
about the inns or in homes of its own just outside the 
Liberties. 2 It was organized, concentred, and subject 
to the wishes of a small and definite public. 

Between this public of Shakespeare and our own there 
is one fundamental difference of large significance: 
his audiences came to the theatre, even if primarily for 
amusement and sensation, yet somewhat also for in- 
formation. Indeed, only in the theatre could they gain 
much of the information without which to-day we seem 
to find it impossible to exist. Though the printing 
press was already beginning to pour out cheap books, 
the public had by no means acquired the reading habit 

1 Life of Shakespeare, p. 34. Sidney Lee. 

2 Any region outside the London wall over which the City fathers 
had jurisdiction. 

no j 



THE PUBLIC OF 1590 

as it is understood to-day. This was chiefly for the 
very good reason that popular education had only just 
begun to spread. Consequently, as has often been 
pointed out, the theatre filled not only the place it 
occupies now, but the place of the magazine, illustrated 
histories, biographies, and books of travel and even of 
the yellow journal. This is proved by the innumerable 
plays from such sources as Painter and Bandello, by 
the chronicle histories, by Sir Thomas Wyatt, Sir 
Thomas Gresham, or the Building of the Great Exchange, 
The Adventures of Three English Brothers, Two Murders 
in One, and Arden of Feversham. Nor was this com- 
bined desire for amusement and information anything 
new, for till well down to the middle of the century the 
attitude of the English public toward the drama had 
combined that of the person seeking amusement and the 
person seeking instruction. For generation after genera- 
tion the forefathers of the men of 1590 had learned, 
while they enjoyed, from the miracle plays and the 
moralities; and the forebears of these Elizabethans, 
in the days of Henry VIII, had been trained in poli- 
tics as well as in education by moralities of the 
type of Albion' s Knight and the Marriage of Wit 
and Science. 

This receptivity of mind in Shakespeare's auditors 
was also an alert receptivity, for they came to the 
theatre not at the end of an arduous and deadening day 
of business or after an elaborate dinner ending only 
just before the performance, but in the clear light of 

till 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

the early afternoon at two or half-past two ; and they sat 
in a building which, open as it was to the air, had great 
advantages of ventilation as compared with our own. 
But this alertness had less superficial causes ; one must 
not forget the immensely stimulating effect upon the 
people at large of the various influences of the Refor- 
mation and of the Renaissance as they had been per- 
meating England for nearly a century. Later, through 
the disappearance of the Armada and the ending of 
conspiracies in behalf of Mary Queen of Scots by her 
death, the growth of a national spirit stirred the English 
to new interest in their past and present. No less stim- 
ulating were the stories of adventure, discovery, and 
conquest told by the English voyagers who came sail- 
ing homeward from all the known and unknown seas. 
Naturally this varied, eager interest overstimulated 
managers and authors. Their straining to provide con- 
stant novelty is responsible for the very large number 
of Elizabethan plays and for the crudity of many of 
them. A play was not given for a number of con- 
secutive performances, but if it could be run once or 
twice a week throughout the season, and then kept in 
the repertoire for occasional revivals, was considered a 
great success. Many a play saw but a single season 
and only a half dozen performances in that. I have, 
however, called the dramatists of the early nineties 
overstimulated, because their audiences were by no 
means as exacting as ours in their use of the word 
"new." For them what was re-presented, if skilfully 

[12] 



THE PUBLIC OF 1590 

done, was as good as new. To those audiences be- 
longed permanently what is for us in our recent vogue 
of plays made from novels — something wholly unpre- 
sentable a dozen years ago — a mere passing mood. 
So popular in Shakespeare's day were made-over plays, 
and plays made from well-known pamphlets or tales, 
that one wonders whether the audiences perhaps found 
it a little hard to follow the extremely condensed ex- 
position of a play unless they already knew something 
of the story. Whatever the reason, they were not in 
the least exacting where our audiences to-day are most 
exacting, namely, in the matter of plot. To-day we 
sneer unless a man gives us what we call a "new" 
story, or so disguises an old story under new conditions 
and environment that we do not recognize it — and 
we make these demands in the face of the fact that 
dramatists as famous as Gozzi and Schiller have been 
able to find in all human life but combinations and 
permutations of thirty-six dramatic situations. The 
fact is, the mood of the Elizabethan theatre-goer was 
delightfully childlike. He came, as a child comes, 
saying practically, "Tell me a story," and he cared not 
at all, provided the story was interestingly told, if he 
had heard another tell it before. It is doubtful if, 
even when trained by the best work of Shakespeare 
himself, Elizabethan playgoers rose as a group to the 
interest of our audiences in characterization. What 
they demanded first of all in a play was story. This 
fact must be kept steadily in mind in reading the plays 

[13] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

of Shakespeare and his contemporaries, for it explains 
the great emphasis in the Elizabethan drama on plot 
as contrasted with the emphasis on characterization 
in plays to-day, written as the latter are for an audience 
trained not so much in seeing plays as in reading novels. 
And here is an illustration of the effect of the public on 
the playwright. 

The advantage for the dramatist of this predominat- 
ing interest in plot and this broad interpretation of 
the word "new" must be self-evident. It permitted 
everybody, since there was no law of copyright, to 
plagiarize with impunity, and, if the results were 
really artistic, with acclaim. No period has ever more 
fully realized the condition phrased by J. R. Lowell : — 

" We call a thing his in the long run 
Who utters it clearest and best." 

No dramatist need have any trouble in rinding a plot, 
because if, as is the case with so many a modern, his 
imagination or experience would not provide it, he 
could revamp an old play or he could use any tale, 
pamphlet, or ballad, no matter how well known. This 
permitted the better order of dramatists to give more 
time to seeing their people in the situations already 
provided, or to finding new situations to fill gaps in 
the material, or for substitution for what they felt to 
be inadequate either dramatically or as characterizing 
material. It permitted the best men to do not only this, 
but — and this is most exacting of all in time — to 
plan their structure carefully. The Elizabethan as 

[14] 



THE PUBLIC OF 1590 

good as appreciated a truth definitively phrased by 
Professor Royce: "As a fact, originality and imitation 
are not in the least opposed, but are in healthy cases 
absolutely correlative and inseparable processes, so 
that you cannot be truly original in any direction 
unless you imitate, and cannot imitate effectively, 
worthily, admirably, unless you imitate in original 
fashions. The greatest thinker, artist, or prophet 
is merely a man who imitates inimitably something 
in the highest degree worthy of imitation." 

Nor was play writing a wholly haphazard matter. 
Apparently few of the Elizabethans at first wrote inde- 
pendently. They worked in collaboration with more 
experienced men or with men who could supply the 
proposed play with some quality which they themselves 
lacked. That is, Shakespeare, in the first and second 
parts of Henry VI, probably made over, with Christo- 
pher Marlowe, work in the first instance by Marlowe, 
Greene, and Peele. One even finds three or four novices 
working together, apparently sometimes collaborating 
act by act, sometimes taking each man an act to him- 
self. The value of all this is evident when one remem- 
bers that some of the foremost dramatists have declared 
collaboration to be the best possible training a young 
playwright can have. Moreover, as has already been 
implied, much of the time of a young dramatist in 
Shakespeare's day went to making over plays once pop- 
ular, but out of date. It is as if our public to-day 
would allow the young men who are in vain trying to 

[15] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

have their crude productions represented to make over 
in accordance with the taste of the moment Uncle 
Tom's Cabin, East Lynne, and Meg Merrilies. The 
chance which such work offers to see what in once 
popular plays has permanent interest for an audience, 
and what changes will make the ephemeral permanent, 
must have been invaluable in giving a young play- 
wright an intelligent understanding of dramatic manipu- 
lation of his material for his particular audience. 
When he once understood that, he had acquired the 
chief means, as the words of M. Du M6ril show, to 
make his dramatic ability widely recognized. Here, 
then, are two conditions at the outset of an Elizabethan 
dramatist's career — collaboration and adaptation of 
old plays to new social and intellectual conditions — 
very favorable to swift and large development of a 
man with inborn dramatic instinct. Nor must a third 
be forgotten. These dramatists of the great Eliza- 
bethan period, that is, for our purposes, 1585 to 1603, 
really lived in the theatres. Though it is true that 
the best of the dramatists were by no means equally 
famous actors, many of them did act; and therefore 
they could visualize their material not merely as drama- 
tists but also as actors. The immense importance of 
that double power we shall realize as we watch the 
development of Shakespeare, himself an actor. Even 
those dramatists who did not themselves act made 
part of the group which, whether it centred in Shore- 
ditch or on the Bankside, one can see from the diary 

[16] 



THE PUBLIC OF 1590 

of Philip Henslowe and the letters of Edward Alleyn 
was much like a large family or, perhaps better, a club 
of Bohemians. From year's end to year's end they 
wrote, talked, and lived drama. 

Indeed, the Elizabethan dramatists, with the ex- 
ception of Ben Jonson, wrote with an eye single to the 
stage. When they sold their plays they seem to have 
disposed of all rights in them. In the absence of any 
copyright law, and in the presence of intense competi- 
tion among the companies, every reason urged a com- 
pany to keep a successful play as long as possible from 
publication. Most plays, therefore, came into print 
because the company owning them went to pieces, 
because the plays were no longer great successes on the 
stage, or because they were published surreptitiously. 
The whole case of the self-respecting Elizabethan play- 
wright is stated, even as late as 1633, by Thomas 
Heywood in his address To the Reader before his play, 
The English Traveller : — 

"If, Reader, thou hast of this play been an auditor, 
there is less apology to be used in entreating thy 
patience. This tragi-comedy (being one preserved 
among two hundred and twenty in which I had either 
an entire hand, or at least a main finger) coming acci- 
dentally to the press, and I having intelligence thereof, 
thought it not fit that it should pass as filius populi, 
a bastard without a father to acknowledge it. True 
it is, that my plays are not exposed to the world in 
c [17] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

volumes, to bear the title of works (as others) ; one rea- 
son is, that many of them by shifting and change of 
companies have been negligently lost ; others of them 
are still retained in the hands of some actors, who 
think it against their peculiar profit to have them come 
in print; and a third, that it never was any great 
ambition in me, to be in this kind voluminously read. 
All that I have further to say at this time is only this : 
censure I entreat as favourably as it is exposed to thy 
view freely. Ever 

" Studious of thy pleasure and profit, 

"Thomas Heywood." 

It is doubtful whether the widespread idea that each 
dramatist confined his labors entirely, or almost en- 
tirely, to some one company is true except when the 
author was also a shareholder or an actor. On the 
other hand, a company would naturally make associa- 
tion with them as attractive and binding as possible 
for any man who could provide them with successful 
plays, and doubtless many who had been free lances 
settled down early to working, at least for long periods, 
for some one company. Think of what this meant for 
these playwrights in concentrated work visualized to 
the utmost for stage purposes. They knew every 
peculiarity and device of the stage on which their play 
would be presented; they did not write, as do play- 
wrights to-day, for countless stages of innumerable 
differences in England, America, and Australia. They 

[18] 



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London in 1588 
(From William Smith's M9. in the British Museuml 



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■ 



THE PUBLIC OF 1590 

did not write for many companies, some of which the 
dramatist of to-day never sees in his plays, but for a 
company so well known to them that even as they wrote 
they could hear the very voices of the men and lads 
who would play their heroes and their heroines. They 
did not write for a hydra-headed, sated composite, 
which we call the public, but for a group of people 
almost as definitely known to them from repeated 
watching as are regular customers to the tradesman of 
to-day. What wonder that these Elizabethan plays, 
with all their faults from the point of dramatic tech- 
nique as it is understood to-day, show when revived an 
acting quality that surprises ! This very acting quality 
means merely that they were so skilfully fitted to one 
public as to acquire certain permanent qualities of 
dramatic appeal. 

The chief fault of our theatrical public is that it rests 
its critical judgments on a confusion of misunderstood 
criteria. Sometimes people hesitate to judge statuary, 
paintings, even music, because they feel their lack 
of standards, but who hesitates to criticise a play? 
Shakespeare's task was simplified because for the greater 
part of his audience there was only the one standard, 
"Does it interest me?" Plays were given at Court, 
and there were courtiers in the public audience, even 
sitting upon the stage ; but the strength of the Eliza- 
bethan drama as contrasted with that of the time of 
James, or, more accurately, the drama of 1608-1642, 
is that it reflects the interests and ideals of the great 

[19] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

body of the people rather than of the Court or any lit- 
erary coterie. Only a few in Shakespeare's audience 
were so travelled that they could compare his plays 
with those of other countries. Very few, compara- 
tively, knew the Classical drama well enough to be 
able to hold him to its methods. The great majority, 
comparing his work only with that of his predecessors 
and contemporaries, were satisfied if their attention, 
stimulated quickly at the opening of the play, was held 
unswervingly to the end. The fact is, the English 
drama was so much in the making that the audience 
had no standards to apply, and even among the drama- 
tists themselves everything was still formative and 
experimental. Till 1580-1585 it may be said, speak- 
ing roughly, that there was no such thing as technique 
of the drama. The plays immediately preceding that 
date can be divided into two groups, — interludes 
influenced by the Classical drama and those uninflu- 
enced. The aim of the interlude was, in whatever time 
was allowed the dramatist, to amuse and interest or to 
interest and move. It told its tale, when uninflu- 
enced by the Classical drama, in whatever way its 
author willed, or perhaps more strictly in whatever 
way his somewhat limited dramatic endowment per- 
mitted. If it was influenced by the Classical drama, as 
in Ralph Roister Doister or Gorboduc, it borrowed cer- 
tain types and showed a division into five acts, but the 
real significance of the five-act division was not grasped 
till long after. Whatever technique existed is to be 

[20] 



THE PUBLIC OF 1590 

found in the work of John Lyly, Thomas Kyd, George 
Peele, Robert Greene, and Christopher Marlowe. In- 
deed, it must chiefly be looked for in the work of Greene 
and Marlowe. That it must be sought in these two 
men is true mainly because if one is to understand the 
technique of any dramatist, one must know the sources 
of his play and must study them in connection with 
the play evolved from them. His shifts in order, 
the differences in emphasis, the material developed 
or supplied — all these matters will throw light upon 
the technique of the dramatist himself. We lack this 
source-material for Lyly and Kyd; and Peele shows 
but little technique. It is just because such compara- 
tive study of the sources and the completed work has 
been neglected that people have been so ready to assume 
that Shakespeare is really the creator of the Elizabethan 
drama — even if that term is confined to the technical 
side of the drama. 

However, examination of the sources of Friar Bacon 
and Friar Bungay and James IV by Greene and 
of Edward II and the first part of Tamburlaine 
by Marlowe show that these two dramatists under- 
stood the fundamental characteristics of successful 
story-telling on the stage. Mr. Pinero has said that 
there are two parts of technique, — " strategy and tac- 
tics." "Strategy is the general laying out of a play; 
tactics, the art of getting characters on and off the 
stage, of conveying information to the audience." l 

1 Robert Louis Stevenson, the Dramatist, p. 13. A. W. Pinero. 

[21] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

The fundamental need in strategy, that is, in laying out 
the play, selective compression of life so that it may be 
represented within the limits of five acts at most with- 
out falsification of its real values, even though historical 
sequence suffer, both Greene and Marlowe understood. 
Perhaps one instance will suffice. Marlowe wished to 
tell the story of Edward II and his favorites. He knew 
perfectly well that Spenser, the second favorite of 
Edward II, rose into power only some time after 
Gaveston, the first favorite, was killed; but he knew 
also that to follow the custom of the earlier playwrights 
and put in a scene to kill time would drop the interest 
of his audience, besides splitting his play into two parts, 
the first dealing with Gaveston and the second with 
Spenser. What did he do? Disregarding history, he 
brought the Spensers in early as followers and friends 
of Gaveston, — they were nothing of the sort, — and 
had Gaveston introduce them to the notice of the king. 
Even by the time of Gaveston's death the position of 
the young Spenser is so well assured that it seems quite 
natural the king in his grief for Gaveston should turn 
his affection toward Gaveston's follower, young Spen- 
ser. Note that though history is tampered with, the 
human problem which interested Marlowe, namely, 
the way in which the unbridled affection of the king 
threw his kingdom into confusion and brought him to 
an ignominious death, is not disturbed at all. Here, 
too, is an illustration of the imperative necessity that a 
critic should first find out what a dramatist means to 

122 | 



THE PUBLIC OF 1590 

do, and then, and then only, berate him for turning 
history from its natural course. 

Such selective compression as I have just been not- 
ing makes, of course, for unity in the telling of the story, 
and if the first step in dramatic composition be so to 
select your incidents that you can illustrate within 
five acts the idea or the character which obsesses your 
mind for the time being, the second essential is that 
you shall not scatter the interest of your audience, 
but shall so order your details that at the end your 
purpose, if any, is clear, or that your story, at least, 
develops clearly and interestingly from start to finish. 
Marlowe understood this perfectly. He found in his 
sources for Tamburlaine merely the statement that the 
great conqueror had one wife of several whom he 
loved devotedly. In Perondinus, from whom Mar- 
lowe took Zenocrate, she is unnamed and without even 
a nationality. With Marlowe she is the daughter of the 
Soldan. Made prisoner by Tamburlaine, she becomes 
his devoted and admiring wife. Her chief desire is to 
reconcile her father and her husband, for her father 
has taken up arms to revenge her capture. Why all 
this elaboration ? That the desire of Zenocrate, who is 
captured in Act I, may connect that act and every other 
place where it is mentioned with Act IV, in which the 
Soldan, her father, first appears. Above all, this elabo- 
ration takes place in order that what has been a slight 
element of suspense in the body of the play, interest to 
learn whether her desire is accomplished and how, may 

[23] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

give a climatic effect to the fifth act. There, amidst the 
waving of banners, the blowing of trumpets, and the 
marching and countermarching of the two little stage 
armies, Zenocrate reconciles her husband to her father. 

What I have just been citing from Tamburlaine 
shows also that Marlowe understood motivation, that 
is, making the action of his characters result from 
causes in accord with human experience. Even in 
small things Robert Greene provides for this in a play 
not usually ranked high technically, namely, Friar 
Bacon and Friar Bungay. In the History, the source 
of the play, the story of the quarrel of the two fathers 
who have been lifelong friends, has no other connection 
with the rest of the material used by Greene than 
that their sons, also devoted friends, see the quarrel 
through a magical glass, the property of Bacon, the 
necromancer. Greene makes the fathers suitors for 
the hand of Margaret of Fressingfield, and in their 
jealousy provides the cause of their quarrel. More- 
over, as the sons watch this quarrel through the magic 
glass, they hear their fathers, as they wrangle, mention 
the loyalty to them of their sons. This sufficiently 
motivates the hot words between the sons and the fatal 
fight which ensues. 

Two other causes of success in playwriting are proper 
suspense and climax. Indeed, it may be said that the 
business of the dramatist is the creation of suspense and 
the sustaining of it when created. Robert Greene, in the 
first act of Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, creates sus- 

0241 



THE PUBLIC OF 1590 

pense in four scenes in the following clever fashion: 
The first arouses interest in the love story and intro- 
duces the two plots — that of the love of Prince Ed- 
ward for Margaret and that of Bacon's necromancy; 
the second increases the interest in Bacon's necromancy 
and promises marvels ahead; the third scene compli- 
cates the love plot, but offers no hint of the solution; 
the fourth, bringing in nearly all the remaining charac- 
ters, leads the play, as did the first act, toward Ox- 
ford, threatens by bringing the King and the Prince 
together to complicate the love plot, increases the desire 
to see what Bacon can do in conjuring, and arouses 
national pride by suggesting a contest in necromancy 
between Bacon, of England, and Vandermast, repre- 
sentative of the German Emperor. Surely, with all 
those reasons for wishing to see Act II, suspense has 
been intentionally created. 

Too often, in judging the Elizabethan dramatists, 
we blame them for a lack of climax at the end of acts 
or in the closing scene because in modern practice till 
very recently we find at these points a moment of in- 
tense emotional expression. We forget, in the first 
place, that the modern curtain and the long waits 
between the acts are largely responsible for this heavy 
stressing of the final moments of scenes and acts; an 
effect strong enough to hold over is required. For 
the Elizabethan, as the next chapter will show, scene 
melted swiftly into scene. Moreover, as he was pri- 
marily interested, not in character but in story, he 

e 25 a 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

was content if the act closed at an interesting point in 
the plot and left him eager for more. The silent climax 
so popular in recent years, depending as it does on 
complete understanding by the audience of the train of 
thought of the hero or the heroine, can never be as 
widely popular as the climax emphasized by speech 
or unmistakable action. For the bulk of the great 
theatrical public to-day the leap of the heroine of melo- 
drama from the window of the burning building is more 
moving than the sobbing departure of Iris from the 
rooms of Maldonado. That is, except for the critically 
trained, action produces larger emotional returns than 
does speech, and speech is more effective than merely 
connotative action. That both Greene and Marlowe 
understood climax well, so far as pomp and spectacle 
in themselves or by symbolizing the mental triumph 
of those upon the stage produce it, the ends of James 
IV and Tamburlaine, Pt. I, show. Indeed, the last act 
of the second part of Tamburlaine, showing the slow 
yielding of the great unconquered of mortal forces to 
the steady, insidious attacks of death, would in action 
work up to a superb climax in that last shuddering, 
sobbing line — 

" For Tamburlaine, the Scourge of God, must die." 
In brief, the absence of persistent climax in the modern 
sense among these early Elizabethans is due, not to 
ineptitude, but to their conception of the nature of 
dramatic narrative for the stage. 

If, then, the pre-Shakespearian dramatists were 

| 26 J 




The Tower in 1597 



A. The Middle Tower. 
D. Beauehamp Tower. 



T. The Bloody Tower. 
Y. St. Thomas's Tower. 



W. Caesar's or White Tower. 



THE PUBLIC OF 1590 

primarily story-tellers, certainly they had discovered 
ways of making their story arouse and maintain interest 
which, compared with the novel of their own day, are 
succinct. But, in another essential of the strategy of 
playwriting, they were very uneven, namely, characteri- 
zation. Too often their figures said what was neces- 
sary for a clear development of the story rather than 
what made them, I will not say individuals, but even 
types. Incident these men understood; the related 
incident which is plot they had begun to understand, 
and they were steadily making essays at characteriza- 
tion ; but far too often it was colorless as in John Lyly, 
conventional as is usually the case with Thomas Kyd, 
or only fitfully true to life, as in George Peele. Yet at 
times their sympathetic imagination kindled their 
vocabulary to accurate responsiveness, and they struck 
out perfect speeches, scenes, and even rarely, as in 
Tamburlaine, consistently conceived and strongly 
phrased central figures. It must be noted, too, that 
they often felt the situation entering into it emotion- 
ally, but were unable to phrase it with simplicity and 
truth. This is particularly true of Marlowe's Tam- 
burlaine, and of all the known work of Kyd. But both 
of these men, and Greene as well, have moments in 
which they defy criticism. Take, for instance, the 
passionate cry with which Margaret, the heroine of 
Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, yields to the pleadings 
of her lover Lacy that she put off the nun's garments 
just assumed for the wedding robes he has prepared : — 

[27] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

"The flesh is frail; my lord doth know it well, 
That when he comes with his enchanting face, 
Whate'er betide, I cannot say him nay, 
Off goes the habit of a maiden heart, 
And, seeing fortune will, fair Framlingham 
And all the show of holy nuns, farewell ! 
Lacy for me, if he will be my lord. 
Lacy. Peggy, thy lord, thy love, thy husband." 

Nor can any student of the Elizabethan drama 
forget Greene's Dorothea, the first real woman of any 
complexity in that drama — tender, pure, wise, and 
loyal to the last. When her friends advise her to 
arouse her father against her husband James IV, who 
has wronged her greatly, this is her answer : — 

" As if they killed not me, who with him fight ! 
As if his breast be touched, I am not wounded ! 
As if he wailed, my joys were not confounded ! 
We are one heart, though rent by hate in twain; 
One soul, one essence, doth our weal contain: 
What, then, can conquer him, that kills not me ? " 

Even amidst the conventional phrase of Thomas 
Kyd in the Spanish Tragedy, which is so pervasive as 
to make the characterization almost completely inade- 
quate for a modern reader, there are purple patches. 
Take, for instance, the first two lines of Hieronimo's 
last speech in the scene in which the King and the 
Viceroy, whose nephew and son respectively he has 
killed in revenge, keep the old man from suicide: — 

"King. Hold Hieronimo, — 

Brother, my nephew and my son are slain. 
Viceroy. We are betrayed, my Balthazar is slain : 

Break ope the doors; run, save Hieronimo. 

[They run in and hold Hieronimo. 

[28] 



THE PUBLIC OF 1590 

Hieronimo, do but inform the king of these events, 

Upon mine honour, thou shalt have no harm. 
Hieronimo. Viceroy, I will not trust thee with my life, 

Which I this day have offer' d to my son, — 

Accursed wretch, why stay'st thou him that was resolved 
to die? 
King. Speak, traitor ! damned bloody murderer, speak ! 

For now I have thee, I will make thee speak : 

Why hast thou done this undeserving deed ? 
Viceroy. Why hast thou murdered my Balthazar? 
Castile. Why hast thou butchered both my children thus? 

Hieronimo. O, good words : as dear to me was my Horatio, 

As yours, or yours, or yours, my lord, to you, 

My guiltless son was by Lorenzo slain, 

And by Lorenzo and that Balthazar 

Am I at last revenged thoroughly; 

Upon whose souls may heav'ns be yet avenged 

With greater far than these afflictions." 



What could be more final in phrase than that ago- 
nized cry of the opening two lines of the last speech? 
Moreover, to point out that these men just preceding 
Shakespeare were uneven in characterization, even 
faulty, is to judge them in the light of modern drama 
or at least of the Shakespearian work of 1595 to 1610, 
something wholly unfair, for their own audiences, com- 
paring the plays with the wooden figures and the frigid 
dialogue of the novels of the day, probably waxed 
enthusiastic over the very great advance in charac- 
terization. At least, then, these men were grasping the 
fundamentals of playwriting, — selective compression, 
the unification of material which makes plot, charac- 
terization including motivation, and dramatic dialogue. 
They were acquiring the knowledge which any man 

(129] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

must have if he is to write acting plays at all, and con- 
sequently were as yet stronger in the laying out of their 
plays, strategy, than in tactics, — the methods of 
conveying information to an audience, of getting 
characters on and off the stage, and of creating atmos- 
phere. By the latter I mean witching an audience 
into believing itself in any land, real or unreal, which 
the dramatist may desire to represent. These early 
Elizabethan dramatists are for modern readers weari- 
somely fond of monologues and of self-exposition, nor 
do they scruple to use prologues and chorus as means of 
simplifying their problems of exposition. The idea 
of making entrances and exits count in characterizing, 
or dramatic in themselves, seems hardly to have oc- 
curred to them. Atmosphere they tried for but rarely, 
and even then only in single speeches. Yet the way in 
which these men piece out their chief source in order 
that the play may teem with interest or add a subplot 
for the same purpose, and their use of humor, show 
that they were keenly sensitive to the moods and in- 
terests of their coarse-minded, story-loving audiences. 
Consequently it is probable that the defects just pointed 
out are more faults from the modern than the Eliza- 
bethan standpoint. Their audiences allowed them the 
faulty exposition, for they themselves knew no better 
till these very men or their successors taught this public 
higher standards. Such details as characterizing en- 
trances and exits would and could come only as the art 
of playwriting refined. The same is true of atmosphere. 

[30] 



THE PUBLIC OP 1590 

Yet the Arraignment of Paris, by George Peele, has 
touches of it. The following curious mixture of pseudo- 
classicism and genuine observation of nature somehow 
does transport one to a slow-slipping brook in some 
flower-bespangled English valley : — 

" Not Iris, in her pride and bravery, 
Adorns her arch with such variety; 
Nor doth the milk-white way, in frosty night, 
Appear so fair and beautiful in sight, 
As done these fields, and groves, and sweetest bowers, 
Bestrew' d and deck'd with parti-colour'd flowers, 
Along the bubbling brooks and silver glide, 
That at the bottom do in silence slide ; 
The water flowers and lilies on the banks, 
Like blazing comets, burgen all in ranks ; 
Under the hawthorn and the poplar trees 
Where sacred Phcebe might delight to be, 
The primrose and the purple hyacinth, 
The dainty violet, and the wholesome minth, 
The double daisy, and the cowslip, queen 
Of summer flowers, do overpeer the green; 
And round about the valley as ye pass, 
Ye may ne see for peeping flowers the grass." 

That is, these men were learning the tactics of play- 
writing by experience, and, as they learned, provided 
their audiences with higher standards of judgment. 
Nor were these men without some feeling for literary 
expression. Blank verse had been gaining in popular- 
ity through increasingly frequent experimentation since 
Gorboduc in 1562. So popular was it by 1591 that 
Robert Wilmot, one of the authors of Tancred and Gis- 
munda, first acted in 1568, when he printed his play, 
polished the rhymed quatrains, " according to the 

[31] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

decorum of these days," into blank verse. It was by 
1590 as definitely established as the medium for serious 
dramatic expression as was prose for farce and low 
comedy. These men were not without, too, what they 
and their public regarded as excellencies of style meant 
to give additional charm to the inherent interest of 
their story and the worth of their plays as drama 
purely. Undoubtedly much which is to our ears 
fustian, or mannered to excess, gave their audiences 
something of the delight which we have been gaining 
from Walter Pater and George Meredith. Perhaps a 
century hence our descendants may think our taste as 
queer as we find the delight of an Elizabethan audience 
in a passage like the following from Kyd's Spanish 
Tragedy : — 

" O eyes ! no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears : 
O life 1 no life, but lively form of death : 
O world ! no world, but mass of public wrongs, 
Conf us' d and flir d with murder and misdeeds : 
O sacred heav' ns ! if this unhallow' d deed, 
If this inhuman, and barbarous attempt; 
If this incomparable murder thus, 
Of mine, but now no more my son, 
Shall unreveal'd and unrevenged pass, 
How should we term your dealings to be just, 
If you unjustly deal with those that in your justice trust? " 

Read that passage without entering into it emotion- 
ally, and it is almost fantastic in its mannerisms. On 
the other hand, turn the imagination loose upon it 
sympathetically, assuming that an audience that had 
gone wild with enthusiasm over Lyly's intricate, cum- 

[32] 



THE PUBLIC OF 1590 

brous, and intensely artificial prose style is listening, 
and you will find it carries surprisingly. Just here is 
an admirable illustration of the way in which any play 
derives a large part of its immediate value from the 
closeness of its relation to the audience it addresses. 
Here, too, is illustration of another point far too little 
understood by the general public, but entirely clear 
even to these early Elizabethan dramatists, that in 
any phrase it is not, on the stage, so much the thought as 
the emotion called out by the words which tells with 
an audience. Did even the remotest spectator in the 
old Elizabethan theatre, in order to understand that 
here was an aged father agonized at the death of his 
son, need more than to see the poses, facial expression, 
and gestures of the actor, and to hear the tones of his 
voice? What do the words matter? Enter sympa- 
thetically into the feeling of the lines, disregarding the 
separate words, and then let the voice color the lines. 
In spite of the highly mannered phrase, the speech 
will carry its emotional appeal direct to an audience 
to-day. 

In 1590, therefore, beginnings were on every hand: 
beginnings of an understanding and a competent use 
of the essentials of the drama and of special methods 
which would be effective for the epoch or half century, 
but not thereafter ; beginnings, as the interest in phrase 
shows particularly, of a complete union between the 
drama and literature. These beginnings were not, 
however, persistently maintained by individuals, even 
d [ 33 ] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

the best of them. Even when Marlowe understands 
and feels, he often falls short in phrase of recreating 
in us instantaneously his thought and his emotion. A 
man was needed to bring the somewhat ragged experi- 
mentation to an orderly science. In one respect, also, 
this drama just before Shakespeare was almost in- 
choate: it did not differentiate clearly, indeed, hardly 
at all, between what we know as different dramatic 
forms. These pre-Shakespearian dramatists leave us 
uncertain whether they are writing chronicle history, 
melodrama, or tragedy, not distinguishing the last from 
the two preceding allied forms; nor had they at all 
discerned the boundaries of farce, extravaganza, low 
comedy, and high comedy. The drama, too, except 
in Marlowe, was mere story-telling. It had not gone 
deep into characterization. Moreover, except in the 
best men, it was an everyday affair, with no beauty of 
content. Even in Marlowe there was not the pervasive 
beauty that raises a piece of dramatic composition 
to the level of dramatic art. Some one was needed 
to chart, to develop, and to beautify this dramatic 
wilderness. 

In 1590, then, when Shakespeare emerges as an ex- 
perimenter in playwriting, the drama had two equipped 
homes, the Theatre and the Curtain, and was run on an 
orderly business basis; the companies had been reor- 
ganized under self-respecting conditions ; and play- 
writing meant, not mere haphazard experimentation, 
but a period of apprenticeship under desirable condi- 

[34] 



THE PUBLIC OF 1590 

tions, and writing with the idea, above all, that "the 
play is the thing.' ' A public, eager for information as 
well as amusement, unprovided with information by 
many of the purveyors of news of the present time, came 
to the theatre day after day asking little more, if any- 
thing more, than to hear a story, new or renewed, 
interestingly told. Already a group of plays existed 
in which any constant attendant at the theatres who 
aimed to be a playwright might distinguish certain 
principles, permanent and ephemeral, — though he 
probably would not distinguish between them, — which 
could steady him as he moved to an accomplishment 
more significant than any which had preceded him on 
the stage for which he was writing. What that stage 
was the next chapter attempts to show. 



[35] 



CHAPTER II 

THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

IN order to understand with any completeness the 
theatrical conditions under which Shakespeare 
worked, one must first recreate the London of 1590- 
1600. It was not only a small place, but, strange as it 
seems to-day, airy and clean. To any one who knows 
the region of London Tower now the description of it in 
1597 by Haughton the dramatist may be surprising : — 

"I promise you this walk o'er Tower-hill 
Of all the places London can afford, 
Hath sweetest air." 1 

One reason for this great change is that, though 
Shakespeare speaks cosily of "the latter end of a sea 
coal fire," the authorities still regarded coal so dubi- 
ously that at one time in the reign of Elizabeth burn- 
ing it during the session of Parliament was forbidden, 
lest the health of country members (accustomed only 
to wood fires) be injured. 

The great highway was the Thames, not because it 
gave access to the sea, but because, as William Smith's 
map of 1588 shows (p. 18), it ran between the City 
and the many inns on the opposite bank, in the High 

1 A Woman will have her Will, Act I, Sc. 2. 
[36] 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

Street, Southwark, and because narrow and ill-paved 
streets which wound tortuously from point to point 
made travel difficult and sometimes dangerous. It was 
much quicker to go to some one of the numerous 
"stairs" which lined the river bank on both sides, and 
to summon one of the many hundred boatmen who 
flitted hither and thither across the Thames. Taking 
the order, the man would swing off into the stream, cry- 
ing to approaching boatmen, "Eastward Ho," "West- 
ward Ho," " Northward Ho," as he chanced to be going 
in any one of these directions. When he landed his 
passenger, he charged a penny or two for a short dis- 
tance with the tide, but could exact sixpence for the 
same distance against it. Only one bridge spanned 
the river, a forerunner of the present London Bridge. 
Ryther's map of London in 1604 shows clearly 
the wall surrounding the City proper, and also the out- 
lying territory. The wall ran in a rough semicircle 
from the Thames by the Tower to the Thames just 
below the Fleet Ditch and Bridewell Palace. It was 
punctured by seven gates: Aldsgate, Bishopsgate, 
Moorgate, Cripplegate, Aldersgate, Newgate, and Lud- 
gate. Three of these are specially memorable for 
students of the Elizabethan drama: Bishopsgate, 
because just outside it, in Shoreditch, to the right of 
the Moorfields region, the Theatre and the Curtain were 
built in 1576-1577; Cripplegate, because in Golden 
Lane, straight out beyond it, the Lord Admiral's Men 
opened the Fortune Theatre in July, 1601 ; and Lud- 

[37] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

gate, because between that gate and the river, in Play 
House Yard where the Times building now stands, 
the Blackfriars Theatre was built in 1596. Within 
the walls and the Liberties, that is on all land controlled 
by the City Fathers, a public theatre was never per- 
mitted in either Elizabeth's or James's reign. All pub- 
lic dramatic performances allowed by the City authori- 
ties must be given in inn-yards. Nor were even the 
two private theatres, the Blackfriars and that of the 
Children of Paul's, exceptions, for the Liberties of 
the Blackfriars were exempt from the jurisdiction of 
the Common Council, 1 and the Dean of St. Paul's con- 
trolled the Cathedral precincts. This opposition of the 
City authorities, though grounded in Puritanism, was 
undoubtedly strengthened by jealous conserving of the 
rights of the City government independent of the 
Crown. Outside the Liberties the Crown was supreme, 
but royalty could not formally enter the City without 
permission of these City Fathers. The actors holding 
patents from the highest of the nobility and even from 
royalty itself, pressed just as near the City walls as they 
could. The resulting conflict in theatrical authority 
caused constant irritation. 

In order better to understand where these Eliza- 
bethan theatres stood, let us traverse rapidly this 
London of 1590. Imagine that we have taken boat at 
Tower Stairs — the Tower was then much as it is now 
except for the disappearance in Cromwell's troublous 
1 Works of John Lyly, R. W. Bond, Vol. I, p. 24, note 6. 

[38] 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

times of the Private Apartments of the Queen. 1 As 
the tide is with us, we can make our way swiftly to 
London Bridge. 2 Like some of the great Continental 
bridges to-day, it was really a great street of dwellings, 
with shops facing upon the street. With its fortress- 
like towers, provided with portcullises, it could easily 
be transformed into a stronghold. At both ends there 
were water mills for grinding grain. All day long traffic 
and pleasure surged and jostled across its narrow length, 
while high above all the heads of traitors to the realm 
bleached in the sunlight. It must have been a place 
most familiar to Shakespeare, where he met day after 
day figures he has made live again in his comedies. 
We find on passing under the arches — at certain con- 
ditions of tide this would be impossible so swiftly does 
the Thames run at this point — the river bank from 
just above us to Westminster wholly different from 
what it is to-day. The Victoria Embankment has 
changed the Thames frontage as completely as develop- 
ing parkway systems are now metamorphosing the water 
front of many American cities. If to-day, in London, one 
goes down Essex Street from the Strand, one will find 
just at its end a curious old arched gateway with steps 
leading to a lower level, now a greensward that stretches 
many hundred feet away to the Thames. In 1590-1600 
the Thames at this spot lapped the garden wall of 
York House. The completion of the Victoria Embank- 

1 Just within the right-hand corner of the Tower walls as shown in 
the print on p. 26. 2 See Frontispiece. 

[39] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

merit in 1870 finished the work of destruction and trans- 
formation which had been going on for centuries, and 
there is little along the water front now to set the imagi- 
nation working in any attempt to reproduce the old 
conditions. 

In Shakespeare's day building after building inti- 
mately associated with the reigns of the kings who fig- 
ure in the Chronicle Plays stimulated curiosity in the 
passer-by as to their lives and deaths. That fact 
must not be overlooked when one seeks to account for 
the swift development of this so-called form of the 
Elizabethan drama between 1585 and 1600. To-day 
we satisfy the same curiosity which the Elizabethan 
felt by visiting historic spots in huge motor cars and 
listening to the hoarse voice of a guide as he shouts 
through a megaphone. Our forebears learned most 
of their history from dramatic and sometimes poetic 
presentation of it in their theatres. Is it clear that 
we have really advanced? 

The palaces which lined the river bank were of two 
sorts, — single buildings looking much like fortresses and 
dating from an early period, or congeries of buildings 
constructed from decade to decade, often of conflicting 
styles of architecture. The first type was built because 
in the factious days before the realm became as settled 
as it was during the rule of Elizabeth and James, he 
who lived outside the walls needed a dwelling which 
he might easily defend. Indeed, these palaces outside 
the City were originally almost exclusively the property 

[40] 




Baynard's Castle 




Arundel House 
(This is but one-half of the square made by the buildings.) 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

of men whose position to a large extent protected them, 
namely, the bishops of the Church. From their sees 
the buildings took their names ; on the City side of the 
Thames were Worcester, Durham, and York houses, 
and on the Southwark side were Winchester House 
and Lambeth Palace, the home of the Bishop of Lon- 
don. By 1590-1600 most of these places had passed 
into possession of the Crown or the nobility. They took 
the names of their successive owners. A good type 
of fortress palace was Baynard's or Barnard's Castle 
(p. 40), in the time of Shakespeare the property of the 
Pembroke family. In the inner court, Scene 7 of Act 
III of Richard III took place : Richard, at the urgency 
of the people, who have been egged on by his tool 
Buckingham, with pretended reluctance accepts the 
crown for which he has been scheming. Passing rapidly 
by Bridewell Palace and the Temple Gardens, with 
the notorious Whitefriars region lying in between, we 
come upon a good specimen of the other form of palace, 
Essex House. It was here that Robert Devereux, so 
long a favorite of the Queen, dwelt, and in it had lived 
another favorite of hers, Robert, Earl of Leicester. 

Just beyond it, by Arundel House, the river curved, 
giving a view (see p. 46) of Durham and Worcester 
houses, the Savoy, once the home of John of Gaunt, 
and, in the distance, Whitehall and Westminster. 
Diagonally across the river from Whitehall stood Lam- 
beth Palace (p. 50), the limit to the southwest of the 
inhabited region on the Bankside. As Smith's map 

[41] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

shows, little but open fields lay between it and the 
theatrical centre on the Bankside. Striking almost 
straight across the river from Lambeth Palace, we 
face interesting buildings at Westminster (see p. 46), 
the Abbey, St. Stephen's, — now built into the ves- 
tibule of the modern enormous Houses of Parliament, — 
and Westminster Hall, where the courts of justice were 
held for centuries, till the New Law Courts were built 
in 1874-1880 opposite the gate of the Temple. That 
famous speech of the Duke of Buckingham, on his 
way to death in the Tower, beginning : — 

" All good people, 
You that thus far have come to pity me, 
Hear what I say and then go home and lose me." 

— Henry VIII, Act II, Sc. 1. 

was given as he walked from this hall to the landing 
stage where we leave our boat. Just outside the gate, 
at the opposite end of the yard, stood the two garrulous 
gentlemen in Henry VIII who gossip so helpfully 1 ior 
the auditor as they wait for Anne Boleyn to return 
up King Street — now wiped away — from her corona- 1 
tion at Westminster. Going up that street ourselves, 
we should come out, under a beautiful archway by 
Holbein, in front of the banquet house and Whitehall 
Palace. In the former many Elizabethan plays and 
many masks, notably Jonson's, were given. From this 
point we can easily make our way to Charing Cross, — 
one of eleven crosses placed by Edward I wherever the 

1 Act IV, Sc. 1. 
[42] 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

body of his queen, Eleanor, rested in its long journey 
from Lincoln to London. Standing at this spot, we 
shall get something the view, up the Strand toward 
Ludgate, which the print on p. 60 shows. Though the 
picture is only a modern attempt to reproduce the 
old conditions, it is approximately right. The space 
between the Strand and the river, where were the 
gardens of the palaces, should be much wider, but 
the view does show the row of palaces which lined the 
bank, the unevenness and ill-paved condition of the 
streets, the open fields to the left, and the curious way 
in which buildings were placed even in the middle 
of the street, notably the still existing churches, St. 
Mary's in the Strand and St. Clement Danes. At best 
this Strand, in 1590-1600, was little better than an 
ill-kept country lane. Making our way rapidly up the 
Strand by the fronts of Somerset and Arundel houses 
omthe right, and the home of Lord Burleigh on the left, 
and passing by the two churches already mentioned, 
we reach, just by the entrance to the Temple, Temple 
Bar. 1 Originally there was here only just what the 
name implies, — a bar which was at times placed between 
two stone posts in order to mark off the territory gov- 
erned by the City from the royal village of Westminster. 
When Queen Elizabeth went to St. Paul's to give thanks 

1 Some construction stood here much before 1590, for Stow, 
(Annates) under May 31, 1533, writes of Queen Anne Boleyn: " Shee 
with all her Companie, & the Maior rode forth to Temple bar, which 
was newly paynted and repaired," etc. — Old Time Aldwych, Kings- 
way and Neighbourhood, p. 62, C. Gordon. See also map, p. 36. 

[43] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

for the defeat of the Armada, she paused here till the 
waiting City Fathers had given formal permission to 
enter their jealously guarded territory. 

If we pass inside the walls by Ludgate (p. 68), and 
bear a little to the right, we shall see a particularly ugly 
building, the Blackfriars Theatre. 1 Built in 1596-1597 
by the Burbadges, it was occupied from its comple- 
tion till 1608 for the public performances of the Chil- 
dren of the Chapel Royal. Blackfriars was made over 
from a house which had originally been one of the priory 
buildings of the monastery of Blackfriars, 2 and was 
always what was known as a private theatre — that is, 
it was roofed in, had locks on the box or "room" doors, 
gave its performances by candlelight, and charged 
higher prices. Such theatres grew from private and 
court performances even as the public theatre devel- 
oped from performances in inn-yards. Here, between 
1608 and 1625, were given many famous plays, notably 
Webster's Duchess ofMalfy, "presented privately at the 
Blackfriars and publicly at the Globe by His Majesty's 
Servants," and Beaumont and Fletcher's Philaster. 

Going up the rise of land to the northeast of this 
theatre, we shall come in sight of St. Paul's Cathe- 
dral. It was burned in the great fire of 1666. In the 

1 I found the original of this print in London in the great private 
collection of views kept together and developed by Henry Gardiner, 
Esq., as a memorial to his father, who began it. The print seems to 
have been lost sight of, but Mr. Gardiner and antiquarians to whom 
I have submitted it believe it genuine. See p. 78. 

2 See article by Charles William Wallace, London Times, Sept. 12, 
1906. 

[44] 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

houses which surrounded it (see p. 85) — in monastic 
days they had belonged to the petty canons — were 
the bookshops of Shakespeare's day. If you wish to 
buy a copy of Midsummer Night's Dream, you can find 
it at the shop of James Roberts in this yard. It is 
said that he had for many years the right to print such 
programmes as were used in the Elizabethan theatres/ 
but no specimen survives. The place was noisy enough, 
for there were not only the customers whom the shops 
attracted, but as the Yard was the connecting link 
between the City proper and the Strand, a human 
flood flowed through it all day long. In the crypt of 
the Cathedral, once the church of St. Faith's, it is 
reported, too, that coopers loudly plied their trade; 
and up and down the nave of the great cathedral a 
parti-colored, noisy crowd promenaded or jostled, for 
the nave was one of the great rendezvous of the 
day. Before we go into that nave notice the little 
church of St. Gregory's, 2 snuggling close by one 
corner of the great cathedral front, for in it was the 
music room of the choir boys of St. Paul's. That 
room, report says, was the theatre in which from 
long before 1579, when we first hear of the boys as 
actors of John Lyly's plays, till about 1608, they acted 
to the great delight of Elizabethan audiences. Another 
report, 3 however, says that they acted somewhere about 

1 Annals of Dramatic Poetry, Vol. Ill, p. 186. 

2 It disappeared, of course, in the fire of 1666. See p. 95. 

3 Malone's Shakespeare, Prolegomena, III, p. 46, notes 8 and 9. 
History of Stage, p. 56, Fleay. 

[45] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

the Convocation House, and I believe that their theatre 
was the yard enclosed by the high wall seen in the 
print on p. 95. If we make our way by the eastern 
transept and aisle to this yard, we shall find ourselves 
in the enclosure illustrated on p. 115. Is it not strange 
that students of our stage have not before seen the 
fitness of the place for the theatrical needs of the St. 
Paul's Boys? A platform easy to remove could have 
been built out from the door below the Convocation 
House. The yard itself formed the pit. The ambula- 
tory provided spaces for the boxes or "rooms" pre- 
ferred by those able to pay higher prices. The audi- 
ence could enter at either side under the Convocation 
House, or perhaps by doors leading directly from the 
aisle of the Cathedral into the ambulatory. Necessary 
properties could be kept in the Convocation House, 
where the boys could dress, and any needed instru- 
mental music could be placed. The high wall at the 
end of the enclosure in large part shut off the noise 
of the Cathedral Yard. So easily could this nook be 
adapted to the needs of the boy actors that I have little 
doubt it was their theatre in good weather, even if in 
bad they had to use their music room. 

If now we leave the Cathedral Yard by its northeast 
corner and go down Cheapside to the third street on our 
left, we can pass quickly by Great and Little Wood 
streets, to Cripplegate. 1 Thence Red Cross Street takes 
us speedily into Golden Lane, midway on the left of 
1 See Ryther's map, p. 36. 
[46] 




1. Palace of Westminster. 

2. St. Stephen's Chapel. 

3. "Westminster Hall. 
5. Old Palace Yard. 



9. The King's Stairs. 

11. Lambeth Palace. 

15. Whitehall. 

21. St. Mary's Hospital. 



The Ri 

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.ACES 
lap, 1543) 



26. Dnrham House. 

27. The Savoy. 

28. Somerset Palace. 
39. The Temple. 



41. Grey Friars. 

42. Bridewell Palace. 
54. Baynard's Castle. 
67. Winchester House. 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

which stood the Fortune Theatre, opened in July, 1601. 
It belonged to the Lord Admiral's Company, of which 
Edward Alleyn was the leading actor, and Philip Hens- 
lowe, his father-in-law, was manager. From 1594 this 
company had acted at the Rose, on the Bankside, with 
decided success. The money made there led to this new 
venture. The original theatre (see the print on p. 125) 
was built as nearly as possible like the Globe, 1 its rival on 
the Bankside, except that it was not circular but square 
inside. This building burnt in 1621, and was replaced 
by the structure well known from the very common 
print of it (see p. 125). This later theatre, as the 
print well shows, was not circular or even hex- 
agonal without, as were the other theatres. Even 
inside it was not circular, but square like the original 
structure. 

To the left of Golden Lane and farther from the 
Cathedral stood St. John's Gate (p. 135), the office of 
the Master of the Revels, without whose consent no 
play could be given. In his hands, too, were all per- 
formances at Court. At his office were kept the cos- 
tumes and properties used for masks and plays at 
Greenwich, Whitehall, Hampton Court, or any of the 
royal residences. Near by, in St. John's Street, stood 
after 1608 the Red Bull Theatre. This was patronized 
by the unfashionable, and from contemporary reference 
and the print we have of its interior 2 was evidently less 

1 See the contract for the Fortune, in the Appendix. 

2 See p. 230. 

[47] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

fully equipped than its competitors. No print of its 
exterior exists. 

If, instead of going westward to St. John's Gate, we 
had returned up Golden Lane, we could have walked 
rapidly by Beech Lane and Chiswell Street to Moorfields 
and thence to Bedlam. Just to the left as we enter 
the Bedlam region stood the Theatre, the first of the 
buildings specially devoted to plays (see p. 135). Just 
beyond it the Curtain 1 was built the next year, in 1577. 

Both the earlier Fortune and the Theatre have been 
rescued from oblivion by applying a magnifying glass 
to the map of Ryther, on which they appear as little 
more than specks. They must be taken as only approxi- 
mations to their originals, for any one who has studied 
the details of the old maps of London knows that to 
their makers it was the total effect which was the de- 
sideratum and that the theatres naturally meant no 
more to them than do our gasometers to typographers 
to-day. Consequently they drew them in with little 
or no care for accuracy, often, I suspect, conventionaliz- 
ing them to a type form, and never suspecting that 
centuries later we should try to make these maps 
authoritative as to the exact form and position of each 
of these Elizabethan theatres. 

If now we go directly across the City by Bishopsgate, 
Gracechurch Street, and New Fish Street, we shall be at 
the entrance to London Bridge. 2 As we cross that we 

1 See Shakespeare Society's Papers, Vol. I, p. 29. 

2 See Ryther 's map, p. 36. 

[48j 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

may meet a band of players with banners and trumpets 
who are announcing a performance of one of Shake- 
speare's plays at the Globe at two o'clock. 

Once across the Bridge, let us stop some distance up 
the High Street to look back. We shall see that the 
Duke of Suffolk's Palace on the left has given place to 
tenements, and that both sides of the street are lined 
with inns. The Bear was in Bear Alley, the Green 
Dragon in Foul Lane. The Bull, with the pillory in 
front of it, stood about where the print from Wyn- 
grerde's map on p. 46 ends; the Boar's Head, the 
property of the real Sir John Fastolfe, was nearly 
opposite. On the right were the White Hart, the 
George, and the Chaucerian Tabard. The Queen's 
Head was near the Bridge on the right. We are now in 
a region which for generations has been a centre of 
entertainment, for at one time a bull ring had stood at 
the fork in the streets seen in this view, and long before 
any theatre was built on this side of the river there had 
been a place for bull baiting and another for bear bait- 
ing, where the Globe and the Hope theatres will stand. 
By 1600 the theatres in this region looked much as they 
do in the view from the Visscher map (p. 155). By 1584 
the property where the Rose Theatre stood later had 
been leased * by Philip Henslowe, although the theatre 
was probably not constructed until 1592. 2 The Rose 

1 Memoirs of Edward Alleyn (Old Shaks. So.), p. 189, J. P. Collier. 

2 Henslowe's Diary, ed. Greg, pp. 7-10; but see, for question of a 
theatre in 1587, Catalogue of Dulwich Mss., p. 233, G. F. Warner. 

e [49] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

(p. 165) seems by 1603 to have been given up as a thea- 
tre, but it was still used for prize righting. In 1594 
Francis Langley had built the Swan Theatre (p. 165), 
considerably beyond the others, in the precinct of Paris 
Garden. 1 It was meant for bull and bear baiting as 
well as for plays, and its stage could, therefore, be 
removed. By 1632 it had fallen into decay. 2 

In December, 1598, Richard Burbadge became in- 
volved with Giles Allen in a dispute over a new lease 
of the Theatre, originally erected for his father, James 
Burbadge. Consequently, early in 1599, he connived 
with his brother Cuthbert in carrying the wood of the 
Theatre to the Bankside and there erecting a new play- 

1 The Lord Mayor, writing to the Lord High Treasurer in 1594, 
said: "Francis Langley, one of the Alnagers, for sealing cloths, 
intends to erect a new stage, or theatre, on the Bankside." (City 
Remembrancia, p. 354: 1579-1664.) In 1598 it was "ordered by the 
Vestry that Mr. Langley' s new buildings shall be viewed, and that he 
and others shall be moved for money for the poor in regard to the play- 
houses and for tithes." (Minutes St. Saviour's Vestry.) In 1600 
Peter Bromville was recommended from the Court to the Justices of 
Surrey as one known to the French king for his skill in feats of activi- 
ties. Wishing to appear in some public place, he "has chosen the 
Swann, in Old Paris Garden, being the house of Francis Langley." 
(Quoted by William Rendle from a note lent him by Halliwell- 
Phillips.) For later particulars as to this theatre, see William 
Rendle' s The Playhouses at Bankside in the Time of Shakespeare, 
originally printed in Walford's Antiquarian, but separately re- 
printed. 

2 In 1632, in the play Holland's Leaguer, the lady of the leaguer, 
speaking of three famous amphitheatres which can be seen from its 
turret, mentions " one other that the lady of the leaguer, or fortress, 
could almost shake hands with, now fallen to decay, and, like a dying 
swanne, hangs her head and sings her own dirge." 

[50] 




The Palace of Whitehall 




Lambeth Palace 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

house/ the Globe, on or near the site of the old bull- 
baiting ring. The only authentic view we have of this 
first Globe Theatre is from a map of London in 1610 
by Hondius. (See Frontispiece). 

Notice that the building, in distinction from the 
structures shown in the group of theatres, is circular 
rather than hexagonal or octagonal, for the circular 
was the earlier form. It is thatched, too, not tiled 
as were the later buildings, when the companies had 
learned to their sorrow the inflammability of thatch. 
The flagpole rises from the centre of the enclosure 
rather than, as in the later theatres, from a turret 
jutting inward from the tiled roof. These character- 
istics should be noted, for they help to identify some 
views which have been misnamed. On June 29, 1613, 
the first Globe was destroyed, for some lighted paper 
from a piece of ordnance fired in a performance set fire 
to the thatch and within an hour burned the house to 
the ground. It was rebuilt (p. 175) as speedily as pos- 
sible, and stood until 1644, when it was pulled down. 2 

The Hope Theatre, built "neare or uppon" 3 the site of 
the old bear-baiting ring, was put up rapidly in 1613 (see 
p. 165), to catch the custom temporarily lost to the 
Globe by its fire. It was successful at first, but as the 

1 Early London Theatres, T. F. Ordish, pp. 75-76. 

2 It was " pulled doune to the ground by Sir Matthew Brand (owner 
of the land), on Monday, April 15, 1644, to make tenements in the 
room of it." Collier's Life of Shakespeare, p. ccxlii. 

3 See the contract in Malone's Shakespeare, Vol. Ill, Prolegomena, 
p. 144. 

E51] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

theatrical centre, in the years after 1620, shifted to the 
region between Ludgate and Drury Lane, it fell into 
disuse as a theatre, though prize fights and bull bait- 
ings continued there till as late as 1682. 1 

For a long time it was thought that no view of the 
Rose Theatre existed, but a building on Hollar's map 
of London in 1647 usually identified as the first Globe 
Theatre is now believed by some to be the Rose. 2 The 
building is evidently an old theatre, for it is thatched, 
circular, and shows a flagpole rising from the pit. 
Moreover, it is too near the river for the Globe and does 
not agree with the view of that building by Hondius. 
Yet Hondius made his drawing when the Globe was 
in the full swing of its popularity and the original 
building still stood, but Hollar drew it when the old 
Globe had for over thirty years been replaced by a build- 
ing of different construction, and when all the theatres 
had been disused and neglected for five years. The view 
cannot be the old Globe ; it may reproduce roughly the 
Rose ; possibly it is merely a conventionalized theatre. 

There was also some building at Newington Butts 
which could be used as a theatre. Mr. Fleay shows 
that on account of the prevalence of the plague in 
June, 1592, My Lord Strange's Men were ordered by 
the Privy Council to play at Newington Butts instead 
of at the Rose Theatre. The restraint was not re- 

1 See Rendle, The Playhouses at Bankside in the Time of Shake- 
speare, p. 17. 

2 See p. 165. 

[52] 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

moved till December of the same year. 1 In June, 
1594, we find in Henslowe's Diary, " In the name of 
God Amen begininge at newington my Lord Admeralle 
men & my Lorde chamberlen men As ffolowethe 
1594. " 2 Again the plague and the Privy Council were 
responsible for this shift of about a mile into the fields. 
After ten days the company returned to the Rose. 3 
Probably the structure used was an amphitheatre 
for sports, such as bull baiting, rather than a regularly 
equipped theatre. Stow speaks of it, in 1598, as built 
" in former times." 4 

There were in any of the large companies three groups 
of actors : the sharers, men who had acquired sufficient 
reputation to be allotted shares in order to bind them to 
the company; the actors employed at regular salaries, 
apparently in most cases actors of secondary rank or 
the younger men who had not yet won their spurs ; 
and the boys. The last, dramatic apprentices, appear 
to have belonged to individual actors who were paid for 
their services, and sometimes they seem to have been 
sold by one actor to another. 5 That the means by 
which these boys were obtained were sometimes more 

1 A Chronicle History of the London Stage, p. 86. 

2 Henslowe's Diary, Greg, p. 17. For reference to plays "about 
Newington," in 1586, see Old London Theatres, T. F. Ordish, p. 147. 

3 A Chronicle History of the London Stage, p. 140. 

4 Rendle, The Playhouses at Bankside in the Time of Shakespeare, 
p. 18, says that the Newington Butts Theatre stood about where the 
Metropolitan Tabernacle, famous in the ministry of Mr. Spurgeon, 
now is. 

5 " bowght my boye, Jeames brystow, of william augusten, player, 
the 18 desembr 1597 for viij H " Henslowe's Diary, Greg, p. 203. 

£53] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

than doubtful is shown by some old documents dis- 
covered a few years ago, in which a father has invoked 
the aid of the law to restore to him a son who had, 
according to the parent's story, been kidnapped on his 
way to school by the men at the head of the Children 
of Her Majesty's Revels. 1 Probably, however, such 
instances were rare, for there must have been many 
parents glad to apprentice their children to an art so 
full of glamour and so well rewarded. 

Doubtless many men drifted into connection with 
the theatre, at least as far as managers and sharers are 
concerned. Until the theatres were built in London, 
and, indeed, to how late a date we do not know, the 
actors gave their performances in inn-yards. It is not 
difficult to see the advantage of such performances to 
innkeepers, nor is it difficult to imagine that sometimes 
the players left an inn decidedly in debt for lodging and 
food. What more natural than that some of these inn- 
keepers should have become, willingly or unwillingly, 
financially interested in some one of the companies, or 
that younger members of their families should have 
gone upon the stage ? We know, for instance, that the 
father of the great Edward Alleyn was an innholder 
in Bishopsgate, and that his brother John, after some 
experience as an actor, succeeded his father as inn- 
holder. 2 As for the famous Philip Henslowe, he was 

1 History of the Stage, F. G. Fleay, pp. 127-132. 

2 Memoirs of Edward Alleyn, J. P. Collier {Old Shahs. So. Pubs.), 
pp 3-4; Catalogue of Mss. and Monuments of Dulwich College, G. T. 
Warner, pp. xvi-xvii. 

[54] 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

originally a dyer, and whether he went into theatrical 
management purely as a speculation or was drawn in 
because of money advanced by him to actors, — later 
in life he certainly seems to have been a money lender, 
— or whether at first he meant to do no more than to 
let his building, the Rose, to whatever company cared 
to use it, are unsettled questions. In any case, sources 
from which these dramatic companies could at need 
get fairly large sums of money are sufficiently evident. 
As one turns the pages of such a book as Mr. Fleay's 
A Chronicle History of the London Stage, one is fairly 
bewildered by the number of companies and the dif- 
ferent titles, but closer examination shows that the 
changes are often merely in name. If a new company 
was formed, it must get the right from some one of 
the nobility to bear his title. Originally, undoubtedly, 
and perhaps till the theatres were built in London, a 
company had some close relation to the man whose 
title it bore ; for instance, the members may have been 
required to act in his presence when he wished; but 
certainly by 1590 the relation seems to have been 
largely a nominal one — except when the company 
wished favors from City or provincial authorities or 
got into trouble. In such cases the interest of the 
patron was invoked. 1 Of course, when the patron 

1 See Lord Hunsdon's letter to the Lord Mayor in October, 1594, 
asking permission for his men to play at the Cross Keys Inn, 
Illustrations of Shakespeare, Halliwell, p. 31. For letters of the Earl 
of Nottingham in behalf of his players, see Memoirs of Edward Alleyn, 
J. P. Collier (Old Shaks. So.), pp. 55-57. 

[55] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

gained a new title or died, the name of the company 
must be changed, so that the company of Shake- 
speare was in succession My Lord Strange's Men, My 
Lord Derby's Men, and the Lord Chamberlain's Men. 
After the succession of King James, the company 
became the King's Men. Meantime, of course, the 
company underwent, also, the changes that death, 
necessary retirement from the stage, and the addition 
of needed young players must mean. Now and then, 
as in a time of prolonged plague, — for the Privy Coun- 
cil closed the theatres whenever they thought danger of 
infection too great, 1 — some of the companies, especially 
the smaller ones, could not, as the phrase went " save their 
charges" and so went to pieces. At such a time their 
wardrobes, and their plays in part, passed to other com- 
panies. Other plays went to the publishers and were 
printed for the first time. The actors themselves scat- 
tered among the other companies or formed some group 
to perform English plays in Germany, Holland, or Den- 
mark, where the English players were very popular 
between 1585 and 1600, and where their plays strongly 
affected the German and Dutch drama. The only other 
resource in hard times was to take to the country, but 
it is not likely that when the plague raged in London 
the actors would have been very welcome anywhere. 

Much of the current wonder that Shakespeare's 

heroines could have been adequately represented by 

boys and youths vanishes if one knows the contem- 

1 History of Stage, F. G. Fleay, p. 162. 

[56] 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

porary evidence as to their exceeding skill and realizes 
how long ; thorough, and varied the training of an 
Elizabethan actor could be. As I have already said, 
the men's companies were made up of the sharers, the 
actors on regular salaries, and the boys; but acting 
was by no means confined to these companies. In the 
first place, with the revival of learning and the spread of 
general education in England, the custom of presenting 
Latin plays in the great schools such as Westminster 
and the Merchant Taylors' School became widespread. 
Here was an impulse to send some youths upon the 
stage and by no means wholly unequipped, but it was 
undoubtedly slight as compared with the effect on 
acting of the companies of choir boys, such as, in 
particular, those of the Chapel Royal and St. Paul's 
Cathedral. Words of Shakespeare in the first quarto 
Hamlet i as to the wandering players show that at the 
opening of the seventeenth century the performances 
of these choir boys roused jealousy among the men's 
companies. Nor was this popularity probably wholly 
a mere fad of the moment. For generations the se- 
lection of these boys for their abilities as singers and, 
prospectively, as actors, had been carefully organized 

1 Hamlet. How comes it that they travell ? Do they grow 

restie ? 
Gildenstern. No, my Lord, their reputation holds as it was wont. 
Hamlet. How then? 

Gildenstern. Yfaith my Lord, noveltie carries it away, 
For the principall publike audience that 
Came to them, are turned to private playes, 
And to the humour of children. 

[57] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

under the favor of royalty itself. So, too, had their 
training. For instance, the following writ of the days 
of Richard III is merely the earliest of a long list of 
similar documents reaching down to the second decade 
of the seventeenth century: — 

"Ric, etc. To all and every our subjects, as well 
spiritual as temporal, these letters hering or seeing, 
greeting. We let you wite, that for the confidence and 
trust we have in our trusty, wel-beloved servaunt John 
Melyonek, and of the gentilmen of our Chapel, and 
kenning also his expert habilitie and connying in the 
science of music, have licensed him, and by these 
presents licence and give him auctoritie, that within all 
places in this our realme, as well Cathedral-churches, 
colleges, chapels, houses of religion, and all other 
franchised and exempt places, as elliswhere, our College 
Roil, at Wyndesor reserved and except, to take and 
sease for us and in our name all such singing men and 
children, being expart in the said science of musique, 
as he can find and think sufficient, and able to do us 
service. Wherefore, etc. (1484-1485). " 1 

The early age at which these boys were taken up and 
the severity of their training are shown by some auto- 
biographic lines of the poet, Thomas Tusser. They 

1 Cheque Book of the Chapel Royal, pp. vii-viii. Rimbault. Cam- 
den Society Publications. A rare series of privately printed pam- 
phlets, compiled by Miss Maria Hackett, in 1812-1814, in her effort 
to recover for the St. Paul' s Boys some of their ancient privileges and 
rights, show how carefully the education and care of the boys had 
been provided for up till the end of the eighteenth century. 

[58] 






THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

trace, too, his progress from a provincial choir to St. 
Paul's Cathedral and even Eton : — 

" I yet but yong, no speech of tongue, 
Nor tears withall, that often fall 
From mother's eyes when child outcries, 
To part her fro, 

" Could pity make good father take, 
But out I must to song be thrust, 
Say what I would, do what I could, 
His mind was so. 

" O painful time, for every crime ! 
What touzed ears, like baited bears ! 
What bobbed lips, what jerks, what nips ! 
What hellish toys ! 

" What robes how bare, what college fare ! 
What bread how stale, what penny ale ! 
Then Wallingford, how wast thou abhorrM, 
Of seely boys ! 

" Then for my voice, I must (no choice) 
Away of force, like posting horse, 
For sundry men had placards then, 
Such child to take: 

" The better breast, the lesser rest, 
To serve the choir, now there, now here; 
For time so spent, I may repent, 
And sorrow make. 

"But mark the chance, myself to 'vance 
By friendship's lot to Paul's I got; 
So found I grace, a certain space 
Still to remain 

" With Redf ord l there, the like nowhere, 
For cunning such and virtue much, 

1 Master of St. Paul's choir, fl. 15-. Author of the morality, Wyt 
and Science. 

[59] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

By whom some part of musick art, 
So did I gain. 

"From Paul's I went, to Eton sent, 
To learn straightways the Latin phrase, 
Where fifty-three stripes given to me 
At once I had. 

" For fault but small or none at all, 
It came to pass thus beat I was : 
See Udall, 1 see the mercy of thee, 
To me, poor lad." 

Acting occasionally at Court and daily before the 
public was, at least from 1580 to 1608, as important a 
part of the duties of these boys as their work as choris- 
ters. Trained at first chiefly to act what was graceful, 
what called out all their skill in singing the many songs 
scattered through the plays, or what depended chiefly 
upon its story for effect, they passed to creation of 
exceedingly difficult roles in the work of Thomas 
Middleton, Ben Jonson, George Chapman, John Mars- 
ton, and Beaumont and Fletcher. So wonderfully did 
these little fellows act that a critic as severe as old Ben 
Jonson paid the highest possible praise to one of the 
Children of the Chapel Royal, little Salathiel Pavy, in, 
if it can be believed, the parts of old men. 

" Weep with me all you that read this little story; 
And know for whom a tear you shed, 
Death's self is sorry. 
'Twas a child that so did thrive 
In grace and feature, 
As heaven and nature seemed to strive 
Which owned the creature. 

1 Master of Eton School, 1534-1541. Author of Ralph Roister Doister. 

[60] 




< 

H 
H 
H 



3 



O 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

Years he numbered scarce thirteen, 
When fates turned cruel; 
Yet three filled zodiacs had he been 
The stage's jewel. 

" And did act, 
What now we moan 
Old men so duly, 

As, sooth, the Parcae thought him one 
He played so truly. 
So, by error, to his fate 
They all consented; 

But viewing him since (Alas, too late !) 
They have repented ; 
And have sought, to give new birth, 
In baths to steep him ; 
But being so much too good for earth, 
Heaven vows to keep him." 

Think what these companies of boys must have 
meant to acting as an art ! Of course not all the boys, 
when their voices broke, took advantage of the provi- 
sions existing to send them to the higher schools or 
universities, but some must have gone into the men's 
companies; and it is by no means unlikely that even 
some of those who went to the schools, and even per- 
haps to the universities, turned to acting or to dramatic 
writing later. Certainly the career of Nathaniel Field 
illustrates the development of a member of the St. 
Paul's company into a player, with men's companies, 
of women's as well as men's roles and into a playwright. 
How much all this training at the most pliable period 
must have expedited development into mature actors 
or playwrights ! When one recalls this training and 
remembers that in all the companies there were, also, 

[61] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

"players* boys" who were learning the art of acting, 
one sees that by the age of twenty a youth might have 
had twelve years of steady practice in a great round of 
male and female parts under instruction from the best 
actors, musicians, and dancing masters of the time. 
Does it still seem strange that Shakespeare, with such 
schools of acting existing, consented to intrust his 
heroines to these beardless youths? To-day we con- 
stantly intrust our modern stage heroines, much subtler 
than most of the Elizabethan drama, to graduates of 
grammar schools or of society who have had but a 
year or two of experience upon the stage and have never 
learned the rudiments of the art they pretend to ex- 
emplify. So clearly did Charles II see the value of 
these children's companies to acting as an art that he 
endeavored, though in vain, to establish such a com- 
pany in 1660. 1 

The danger for dramatist and manager of free com- 
petition among the companies for the services of any 
specially gifted actor was provided for by making the 
leading men sharers in the company and by binding 
the men on salary as follows : — 

"Mandom that the 6 of aguste 1597 J bownd 
Richard Jones by & a sumsett of ijd to contenew & 
playe w th the companye of my lord admeralles players 
fro me mi[rr] helmase next after the daye a bowe w r itten 
vntell the eand & tearme of iij yeares emediatly folow- 
inge & to P la y e in my howsse only known by the name 

1 Shakespeare Society's Papers, Vol. Ill, pp. 80-81. 

[62] 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

of the Rosse & in no other howsse a bowt london pub- 
licise & yf Restraynte be granted then to go for the tyme 
into the contrey & after to retorne agayne to london 
yf he breacke this a sumsett then to forfett vnto me 
for the same a hundreth markes of lafull money of 
Ingland wittnes to this E Alley n & John midleton." 1 

The supply of plays was large because production of 
them was rapid. On this point there has been far too 
much readiness among students of our older stage to 
argue from present to past conditions, and to insist that 
this or that play could not have been written at a given 
date because it would have come but a few weeks after 
another play by the author which is clearly dated. 
But this from Henslowe's Diary shows that a man later 
proud of the slowness and care of his dramatic com- 
position had at first to write at top speed : — 

" lent vnto Bengemen Johnson the 3 of desemb^ 
1597 vpon a boocke w ch he showed the plotte vnto the 
company w ch he promysed to dd vnto the company 
at cryssmas next the some of xx s." 2 

In the prologue to Volpone Jonson speaks of five 
weeks as the time usually spent in composing a play. 
We find, too, a dramatist of considerable repute in his 
own time, Daborne, agreeing to write a play between 
the twenty-fourth of December and the tenth of the 
following February. 3 Nor can one explain this ra- 

1 Henslowe's Diary, W. W. Greg, Pt. I, p. 202. For similar agree- 
ments, see idem, pp. 201, 203-204. 

2 Idem, p. 82. 

8 The Alleyn Papers, J. P. Collier (Old Shaks. So.), p. 73. 

[63] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

pidity of composition by saying that these dramatists 
doubtless mulled over their material a long time before 
submitting their plots, for their receipts were not suffi- 
cient to allow them to produce a few plays per year. 
Between 1590 and 1600 the price for a play seems to 
have been between £6 and £8/ Allow that money 
had then eight times its present purchasing value, and 
also that, as D'Avenant alleges, 2 it was the Elizabethan 
custom to give an author the proceeds of the second 
day, yet an income sufficient for a year is hardly 
evident. Unless a dramatist had, like Jonson, some 
patron to aid him, or had other wares to sell, he must 
keep on pouring out plays as rapidly as possible. Just 
here the readiness of the Elizabethan public, already 
explained, to hear a good story retold, must have been 
of great aid. 

Nor were plays lightly selected. Henslowe, when de- 
ciding to advance earnest money to some playwright 
for a proposed play, seems to have depended largely 
on recommendations from some member of his com- 
pany of the • ' booke ' ' containing the plot. 3 Always, too, 
he had at hand the trained judgment of his son-in-law 

1 Henslowe s Diary, Greg, p. 85 et seq. 

2 " There is an old tradition 

That in the times of mighty Tamberlaine, 

Of conjuring Faustus, and the Beauchamps bold, 

You poets us'd to have the second day." 

— Play-House to be Let. 

3 "Lent vnto Thomas Dowton the 10 of febreary 1598 to bye a 
boocke of m r hewode called Jonne as good as my ladey the some 
iijli." Henslowe 7 s Diary, Greg, p. 102 et seq. 

[64] 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

and theatrical partner, the great actor Edward Alleyn, 
and there is evidence that he used it. 1 Undoubtedly, 
the chief criterion was, "Is the story likely to act 
well?" 

These glimpses into the life of the Shakespearian 
actors must show that they were financially well backed, 
had protectors of high rank, were well organized as a 
body, and even managed the selection of their plays in 
businesslike fashion. In brief, the profession of the 
actor was well established in the decade of 1590-1600. 

Performances at the theatres began at two or at 
three o'clock, except at St. Paul's, where the choir boys 
were not allowed to act till after prayers, that is, at 
four o'clock, and must finish by six, when the gates of 
the Cathedral were closed. Performances lasted from 
two hours to two hours and a half. All that can be 
said with safety as to prices at the theatres is that they 
were not the same at all theatres, were raised for first 
nights, and tended upward. Admission to the pit, at 
various places and times between 1600 and 1640, ran 
from a penny to sixpence. The contract for building 
the Fortune calls for "gentlemens roomes" and " twoo- 
pennie-roomes." 2 This suggests that the two-penny 

1 Daborne writing to Henslowe in regard to one of his plays, said, 
"If y u please to appoynt any hower to read to M r Allin, I will not 
fayle." The Alleyn Papers, J. P. Collier, p. 60. 

2 This passage in the contract is ambiguous and is not so easily 
disposed of as students have thought. It reads, "All which stories 
shall containe twelve foot and a half of lawful assize in breadth through- 
oute, besides a juttey forwards in eyther of the saide two upper 
stories of ten ynches of lawful assize ; with fower convenient divisions 

f [65] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

rooms were in the top gallery, for the price is commonly 
named for seats there. According to the date and the 
theatre, prices for places in the lower rooms or boxes 
ranged from sixpence to half a crown, the highest 
charge probably being for such seats as those in the 
"gentlemens roomes" named in the Fortune contract. 
If one hired a stool for use on the stage, — for gallants 
were allowed to sit on the stage during the perform- 
ance, — one paid from sixpence to a shilling. It is not 
clear whether in the public theatre stools could be hired 
for use in the pit, but this was the custom in such pri- 
vate theatres as the Blackfriars. I suspect that at 
least occasionally it was possible even in the public 
theatres. The range of prices in October, 1614, on a 
first night in a not fashionable theatre, the Hope, is seen 
from the Induction to Ben Jonson's Bartholomew Fair. 
"It is further agreed that every person here have his or 
their free will of censure, to like or dislike at their own 
charge, the author having now departed with his right ; 
it shall be lawful for any man to judge his six pen' worth, 
his twelve penVorth, so to his eighteen pence, two 

for gentlemens roomes, and other sufficient and convenient divisions 
for twoo-pennie roomes ; with necessarie seates to be placed and sett as 
well in these roomes as throughoute all the rest of the galleries of the 
said house." (See Appendix.) This shows that each "room" 
contained several places, and does it not raise the question whether 
there were not "four gentlemen's rooms" and some "two-penny 
rooms" in each story? That is, perhaps, the Jacobean managers 
were wise enough to grade prices according to the desirability of the 
seat either in point of seeing or being seen. If so, our present-day 
method of treating the Elizabethan galleries en bloc as to prices is 
amusingly wrong. 

[66] 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

shillings, half a crown, to the value of this place ; pro- 
vided always his place get not above his wit." * Cer- 
tain passages in the Papers of Edward Alleyn 2 suggest 
that at least at the Fortune a theatre-goer paid for 
admission at the door, and then when he had picked his 
place by observation of the house paid a " gatherer" 
or " box-holder" for the particular seat chosen. Cer- 
tainly there were "gatherers" at each door. Gallants 
taking seats on the stage probably entered through the 
tiring house. 

Now that we have seen the exterior of the theatres 
and the formation of the companies, let us look at the 
stage itself. No place is more tenacious of old customs 
than is the theatre, and actors in their art are con- 
servatives. The very evolution of the English stage 
proves this true. When playing passed from the 
monks to the guilds, the performances were given on 
pageant wagons much like the floats at our modern 
carnivals, but by the time of the Moralities, in the fif- 
teenth and sixteenth centuries, performances outdoors 
were often on scaffolds such as that shown on p. 190. A 
curtain could be stretched at the back of the platform 
so as to give a middle and two side entrances. The 
musicians played at the back of the stage. The per- 

1 For the evidence as to prices, see especially English Dramatic 
Poetry and Annals of the Stage, ed. 1879, J. P. Collier, Vol. Ill, 
pp. 146-157. 

2 In the articles of Dawes, a player, " suche moneyes as shal be 
receaved at the Galleres and tyring howse" are mentioned. The 
Alleyn Papers, J. P. Collier, p. 76. 

[67] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

formance took place in front of them without scenery 
of any kind, without any protection from the weather, 
and with no possibility of any dividing up of the stage 
unless some space was left behind the curtain where 
tableaux effects could be disclosed. So crowded, at 
best, must have been this space, however, that free 
use of such an arrangement does not seem likely. Of 
course such a platform in the middle of a city or town 
square must have been much disturbed by noises 
round about, and the actors must have found it difficult 
to collect money from the attending crowd, for it could 
easily melt away just as the collection began. We do 
not know when it first occurred to actors to use inn- 
yards, but those of the olden time (see p. 200), with their 
two or three galleries running all round a courtyard, 
were well fitted for the actors' purposes. They could 
easily control the exits and entrances of the audience, 
and could treat the spaces in the galleries which adjoined 
the rooms of the inn as the equivalent of our modern 
boxes. Indeed, the Elizabethan word " room " for a 
theatre box held a memory of these spaces next the 
rooms of the old inns. The courtyard was the pit, 
where the audience stood or sat on stools hired for 
the purpose. The actor hung his curtain at the back 
of an improvised platform and just at the edge of the 
gallery. He used a room or rooms across the passage 
behind the curtain for a dressing or " tiring " room. 
Now, however, he had gained a second stage, namely, the 
space in the first balcony just above his curtain, for 

[68] 




{ 1G04 
y Kyther) 




L.UDGATE 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

there people supposed to be on a balcony, looking out 
of a window, or on the walls of a town, might 
appear. 

When the actors could plan for a home of their own, 
in 1576, they deftly combined the facilities offered by 
certain existing buildings, namely, the bull-baiting and 
bear-baiting rings, with conditions to which they had 
become accustomed in the inn-yards, and also provided 
for some needs hitherto unsatisfied. The rings, like the 
inn-yards, provided a pit, surrounding galleries, the 
upper stage in the first gallery, and space for a tiring 
house behind the curtain of the stage. But the circular 
shape of the ring brought all of an audience nearer 
than some were under the conditions of the quadrangu- 
lar inn-yards, — a decided improvement. There was 
added by the actors a long-felt want, a sort of hood 
projecting from the wall in front of the tiring house over 
some third or half of the depth of the stage. The space 
within the hood permitted machinery by which gods 
and goddesses in their chariots or cars could be low- 
ered among the mortals. Technically known as the 
" Heavens," this hood was supported by pillars at its 
front, or, as in the case of the Hope Theatre in 1613, 
rested on beams projecting from the rear wall. 1 

On certain characteristics of the Elizabethan theatre 

there is agreement; namely, that the flying of a flag 

above the " Heavens " gave notice of a performance; 

that the stage was strewn with rushes ; that the trumpet 

1 See Appendix for the building contract. 

[69] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

sounded thrice before the prologue came out to speak; 
that he appeared on a little balcony high up on the 
right side of the " Heavens " ; that the music room was 
on one side of the stage or at times just behind it; 
that the tiring room was but a short distance behind 
the rear exits of the stage ; that the earlier Globe at 
least, the Swan, the earlier Fortune, and the Hope had 
" Heavens" ; that there were both an upper and a lower 
stage, as in the inn-yards; and that mechanism con- 
cealed somewhere, probably in the hut of the "Heavens," 
allowed heavy properties to be lowered upon the stage. 
Where dispute occurs or vagueness exists, is in regard to 
the seating capacity; spectators on the upper stage; 
signs for the name of the play and the placing of the 
scenes; the number of exits; the use of hangings or 
curtains on the stages, whether they be called " cur- 
tain," "curtains," or "arras"; the presence of scenery 
of any kind ; and the exact purpose of the second hut, 
behind that over the "Heavens," seen in pictures of 
the second Globe Theatre (see p. 175). 

Before I begin my discussion of these mooted ques- 
tions, let me remind a reader that there was probably 
no one Elizabethan or Jacobean playhouse which was 
completely typical, but that they differed according to 
their age and the finances, as well as the ingenuity, of 
the companies. That there were elaborate properties 
and ingenious mechanical devices not merely at Court 
performances, the stage directions of many plays, 
notably Heywood's Ages and also Henslowe's inven- 

[70 J 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

tory of his properties, clearly prove. The audience 
saw the great horse of Troy on the stage and watched 
the Greeks steal out of it to surprise the city. 1 Of course, 
some properties made heavy demands on the imagina- 
tion of the audience, as Henslowe's "a robe for to goo 
invisibell," but this was unusual. The stage was high 
enough for music underneath and for Hamlet's father to 
walk with such ease as was possible for so perturbed a 
spirit. Other spirits descended from the " Heavens " 
or ascended from the depths below. Transformations 
of persons to trees and of trees to persons took place 
before the eyes of the spectators. Heads rose from 
practicable wells and answered questions. Remember, 
too, it is quite conceivable that an age which could 
produce some of our greatest imaginative writing may 
have had craftsmen imaginative and skilled enough to 
meet any difficulty met by the actors in mounting 
their plays. At Court throughout this time there were 
very elaborate performances with curtains and, appar- 
ently, perspective scenery. 2 The foremost architect 
of the time, Inigo Jones, who was thoroughly informed 
as to the conditions of the theatrical representations in 
Italy, at the time the country most advanced in scenic 
display and ingenuity, was concerned in the Court pro- 
ductions. He was, too, the friend of the dramatists. 
In the light of all this is there not a strong probability 

1 Henslowe's Diary, ed. J. P. Collier, pp. 271-277 (Old Shaks. So.). 

2 See entries in Accounts of the Revels at Court, P. Cunningham 
(Old Shaks. So.). 

I 71] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

that we have underestimated the equipment of the best 
Elizabethan and Jacobean theatres? It must be 
remembered, too, that these older dramatists super- 
vised, or at least attended, the rehearsals of their plays, 
and that it was not, therefore, necessary to give as 
minute directions for the staging of them as must the 
modern writer whose play may be produced in half a 
dozen places at the same time. The text, both when 
acted and when read, was the thing in those days ; even 
for the reader the stage direction had not assumed at 
all its present importance. Consequently, Elizabethan 
stage directions make but a weak basis for argument. 
At best they are the hints of the writer to the experi- 
enced stage managers of the day, their shorthand corre- 
spondence, so to speak. To us, with our incomplete 
knowledge of the detailed conditions of the Elizabethan 
stage, they can convey but half truths. Summed up 
in a sentence, modern investigation of the presentation 
of Elizabethan plays amounts to this : we are gradu- 
ally correcting much misapprehension and are just 
beginning to understand those conditions. There is, 
however, much that in the light of present evidence 
cannot be finally settled. 

The seating capacity of an Elizabethan theatre has 
usually been estimated as somewhere between three 
hundred and twelve hundred. Recently Mr. John 
Corbin, in an acute and brilliant argument in behalf of 
the plasticity of the Shakespearian stage, 1 maintained 

1 The Atlantic Monthly, March, 1906, pp. 371-372. 
[72] 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

in passing that the Fortune and probably other Eliza- 
bethan theatres held nearly three thousand people. He 
rests on the testimony of Johannes de Witt accompany- 
ing the famous sketch of the Swan Theatre. 1 In the 
first place, Mr. Corbin's witness is very suspicious, for 
if one asks a half dozen persons in any audience to guess 
the seating capacity of the room, they will, unless some 
of them know it already, give as many different esti- 
mates. Nothing can be more untrustworthy than 
approximate estimating of an audience, especially in 
the retrospect. Moreover, this particular witness, De 
Witt, commits himself to the statement that the Swan 
was built of a peculiar kind of flint stones. Mr. Corbin 
admits that this is a mistake. De Witt probably mis- 
took a cross-timbered plaster construction for real 
stone. Mr. W. W. Lawrence pointed out some time 
ago 2 why Van BuchelPs sketch of the Swan stage from 
De Witt's description must at best be taken as only a 
somewhat confused memory. In the first place, one 
cannot deduce from the size of the Fortune that the 
other theatres were equally large. It is clear from 
the very wording of the contract for the Fortune that 
that theatre was larger than the Globe, not only 
because it was square inside instead of circular, but 



1 De Witt wrote, " The largest [theatre] . . . seats three thousand 
persons, [and] is built of a concrete of flint stones which abound in 
Great Britain." See print of interior, p. 210. 

2 Englische Studien, 1903, Vol. 32, Some Characteristics of the Eliza- 
bethan-Stuart Stage, p. 44. 

[73] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

because built on a larger scale. 1 The price of the 
Hope shows that it must have been smaller than the 
Fortune, yet it was to be of "suche large compasse, 
forme, wideness, and height, as the plaie house called 
the Swan." 2 It is surprising, too, that if the audiences 
were as large as Mr. Corbin conceives, the return to 
Philip Henslowe as his share of a first night at the Rose 
was but between £3 and £4. 3 As he owned the theatre 
and was manager of the company most often playing 
at the Rose, is it likely at all that this amount represents 
his share in more than a total of £10 or £20? More- 
over, we know that when the players acted at Court 
they were given £10 for an evening performance, for 
that allowed them to play also in their theatre in the 
afternoon, but that they exacted £20 when they lost 
their income of the afternoon by acting at Court. 4 
Indeed, that looks as if £10 came nearer even than £20 
to their profits from a single performance. Necessary 
expenses were, at the late date of 1628, when prices had 
risen, estimated at £2-5 a performance. 5 We know, too, 
that when Herbert, Master of the Revels, was, in 1628, 

1 Street the builder was to " make all the saide frame in every poynte 
for scantlings lardger and bigger in assize than the scantlings of the 
timber of the saide new-erected house called the Globe." 

2 The Fortune in 1599-1600 cost £440; the Hope in 1613 cost £360. 

3 Henslowe 1 s Diary, W. W. Greg, p. 13 et passim. From a part- 
nership agreement of Henslowe with John Cholmley, in 1587, we 
learn that the Rose property, on which at least one small building 
besides the theatre stood, was but 94 ft. square. Memoirs of Edward 
Alleyn, J. P. Collier {Old Shaks. So.), p. 189. 

4 Malone's Shakespeare, Vol. Ill, Prolegomena, pp. 167-68. 
6 Idem, p. 176. 

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given twice a year the second day of a revived play, his 
returns ran from £1-5 to £ 17-10. 1 As he was charged 
£2-5 for actual expenses, that made the largest return, 
even at this late date, but about £20. Moreover, 
when Taylor, the water poet, in 1613, writes complain- 
ingly of the loss of custom because the theatres, except 
the Globe, are now all on the Westminster side of the 
Thames and ferrying is no longer generally required 
by theatre-goers, he says that the theatres — at least 
two and possibly four — draw off from him some three 
or four thousand possible customers. Surely, as he is 
making the strongest case for himself that he can, he 
would have said, were Mr. Corbin's figures correct, that 
some nine or ten thousand were drawn off. What 
becomes, too, of the admitted intimate effects of the 
Elizabethan drama if the plays were given in theatres 
equalled in size only by the largest of the American 
theatres? Long since Americans realized that build- 
ings so large seriously hamper the best dramatic 
work. Even longer England has recognized the 
fact. At most, then, the question of the seating 
capacity may be regarded as open; certainly not as 
settled. 

The De Witt print is largely responsible for the per- 
sistence of the idea that seats in the upper stage were 
used and even coveted by the richer part of the audi- 
ence. It is by no means clear that the persons seen in 
this gallery in the print are not actors in the play watch- 

1 Idem, pp. 176-77. 
[75] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

ing the scene on the front stage, so that any argument 
from it starts from an exceedingly weak premise. 
Secondly, the great majority of the Elizabethan plays 
call for use of the upper stage. How convenient and 
how probable, to turn the occupiers of the upper stage 
seats out when the exigencies of the play demanded ! 
Above all, why should rational theatre-goers wish to 
gaze on the backs of the actors and to sit in the one 
part of the house where hearing would be most diffi- 
cult? Because we do not know exactly where the 
Lords 7 Rooms, the Gentleman's Rooms, were, does not 
prove that they were in the upper stage. Rather, 
Henslowe's contract for the Hope Theatre requires 
"two boxes in the lower most storie, fitt and decent 
for gentlemen to sitt in." 

One of the deeply rooted ideas in regard to Shake- 
speare's stage is that the place of each scene was indi- 
cated by signboards conspicuously placed, and changed 
whenever necessary. Undeniably, signs were some- 
times used. Doubtless, in more than one representa- 
tion in the country, and even perhaps in theatres no 
better equipped than the Red Bull, there was real sig- 
nificance in such a direction as has come down to us 
with one old play of 1603, that if any of the properties 
"will not serve the term by reason of concourse of the 
people on the stage, then you may omit the said proper- 
ties which be outward and supply their places with their 
nuncupations only in text letters." * We have, too, 

1 Faery Pastoral, 1603, St. Paul's Boys. 
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the following direction in a play written in 1601 and 
produced by the St. Paul's Boys : — 

" Harwich. In middle of the Stage Colchester with 
Image of Tarlton, Signe and Ghirlond Under him also. 
The Raungers Lodge, Maldon, A Ladder of Roapes 
trussed up neare Harwich. Highest and aloft the Title. 
The Cuckqueanes and Cuckolds Errants. A Long 
Fourme." * 

That is, there were three doors labelled respectively 
Harwich, Colchester, and Maldon, with necessary 
properties arranged near each. Again, in the Famous 
Contention of the House of York and Lancaster, one finds 
the following direction, "Alarmes to the battaile, and 
then enter the Duke of Somerset and Richard fighting, 
and Richard kills him under the sign of the castle in 
St. Albones." 2 Of course, too, every one remembers 
the lines in Sir Philip Sidney's Defence of Poesy, "What 
childe is there that comming to a Play and seeing Thebes 
written in great letters on an olde doore, doth beleeve 
that it is Thebes V 3 Yet one must move with exceed- 
ing caution from these instances, or even from others 
which are sometimes cited, to the generalization that 
during the period from 1575 to 1620 it was the custom 
in public performances by professional actors to dis- 
tinguish the scenes by signs. Very likely the title of 
the play was usually displayed " highest and aloft," 

1 Cuckqueens 1 and Cuckolds Errants, 1601, acted by the St. Paul's 
Boys. 

2 Shakespeare's Library, W. C. Hazlitt, Pt. II, Vol. I, p. 516. 

3 The Defence of Poesy, ed. A. S. Cook, p. 36. 

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DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

that is, on the front of the "Heavens," where that 
structure existed. Clearly, in some instances, the place 
of the play, and even the places, were shown by signs, 
but that these signs were shifted as often as the scene 
changed, that any indication of scene by signs was 
characteristic of the whole period, or was general in any 
division of that period, remain to be proved. In the 
first place, in the quotation just given from the Defence 
of Poesy, Sidney is not writing of the stage, but is illus- 
trating his point that not even a child takes literally all 
that he is told. How do we know that he is thinking of 
public stage performances rather than of those which 
more appealed to him, the plays at Court modelled on 
the Classic drama and set in classical fashion ? Xo one 
denies that at these Court performances there were 
signs. Even if he did have the public stage in mind, 
he was writing of the crude conditions before 1583. 
Even the Famous Corttention provides a weak basis for 
deduction, for it belongs before 1590. Grant all that 
may be asked for both as evidence for their own time, 
and you merely have a custom which may have in the 
main disappeared by 1600. As for the play given by 
the St. Paul's Bovs, it hardlv seems fair to draw con- 
elusions for the public theatres and the men's com- 
panies from the plays given by boys in private and 
special theatres. Finally, if the use of signs was general, 
why all the care of the dramatists between 1590 and 
1642 to place their auditors exactly? Surely not from 
an irrepressible desire to run into poetic description. 

[78] 




The Blackfriars Theatre 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

Nowadays one sometimes hears lines of Sidney's 
widely separated from those just quoted given with 
them as proof that the public stage of his day used signs 
widely, when really the second quotation clearly de- 
monstrates that in many plays seen by him the audience 
had no means, till helped out by the poet, to tell where 
the scene was supposed to take place. 

"You shall have Asia of the one side, and Afric of 
the other, and so many other under-kingdoms, that the 
player when he cometh in must ever begin with telling 
where he is, or else the tale will not be conceived. 
Now ye shall have three ladies walk to gather flowers, 
and then we must believe the stage to be a garden. By 
and by we hear news of a shipwreck in the same place, 
and then we are to blame if we accept it not for a rock. 
Upon the back of that comes out a hideous monster 
with fire and smoke, and then the miserable beholders 
are bound to take it for a cave. While in the mean- 
time two armies fly in, represented with four swords 
and bucklers, and then what hard heart will not receive 
it for a pitched field ? " 1 

Does that picture a stage with doors carefully marked 
to indicate the places in which the play takes place? 
Certainly not. Just the opposite, in fact. Nor should 
we in considering the probabilities in this matter forget 
that the use of elaborate and suggestive properties 
was steadily increasing after 1590. For myself, I 
believe that there never were signs saying merely, 
1 The Defence of Poesy, ed. A. S. Cook, p. 48. 
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DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

"This is a street/' "This is a house/' etc., and that, 
though signs bearing the titles of the plays may well 
have been displayed, the use of signs to denote special 
places was old, decreasing, and by 1600 unusual. 

Another subject of doubt which any careful con- 
sideration of the stage directions of the old quartos and 
folios will settle is as to the number of doors on the 
Shakespearian stage. But any such consideration must 
be of originals and not of reprints in which modern 
editors have self-satisfiedly interpreted or improved 
on the old directions. Of course, the theatres were not 
alike in this matter, but clearly they had whatever 
number of doors was necessary. For, so far as I have 
been able to ascertain, these Elizabethans were no less 
intelligent or ingenious than the managers and the 
actors of the present day. Evidently the space under 
the balcony at the back of the stage was sometimes hung 
with arras, which, parted in the middle, gave three 
approaches to the stage, or without this parting one 
at each end; or there were doors in the space as one 
sees them in the De Witt print ; or, as there are direc- 
tions which call for what seem to be practicable gates, 
both doors and arras seem to have been dispensed with 
and the gate built in for the performance. After all, 
why should there not have been great folding doors, with 
one or more smaller doors in each, which, when closed, 
would present the appearance of the De Witt print and 
which, when folded back against the side walls, would 
allow the arras to be hung, a practicable gate to be 

[80] 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

built in, or properties to be so placed that the recess 
represented a cave ? Unless the space under the gal- 
lery could be widely opened, how could the entrances 
through the arras sometimes hung there be easily 
managed ? How else, too, provide for bringing on the 
cumbersome properties often called for in Elizabethan 
plays; for instance, the frequently recurring dais? Is 
this plan for big folding doors too ingenious to have 
occurred to a man as shrewd as Philip Henslowe, as 
imaginative as Edward Alleyn, as skilled as Inigo 
Jones ? All intelligence is not of the present, nor is it 
wholly the property of the stage antiquarians. 

I believe, too, that not only were as many doors as 
might be needed provided for, but that they were placed 
wherever the action of the play demanded, not merely 
under the " Heavens " in the space just beneath the 
upper stage. First of all, we have many bits of evi- 
dence to show that three entrances were often used. 
Take, for instance, the opening stage direction of 
Eastward Ho! : " Enter Master Touchstone and Quick- 
silver at several doors. At the middle door, enter 
Golding discovering a goldsmith's shop and walking 
short turns before it." There are three entrances 
clearly enough. Moreover, two of the entrances must 
be beyond the space under the " Heavens," for that 
was too limited to allow a set shop to be discovered and 
give an entrance on each side of the shop. Evidently 
Touchstone and Quicksilver enter at left and at right of 
the space under the upper stage. In Lucrece (Act V, 
o [81] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

Sc. 3) we find this also, " Enter in severall places, 
Sextus and Valerius above." That is, there was an 
entrance at each end of the upper stage. The fact is, 
any close study of Elizabethan and Jacobean stage 
directions should convince the student that dramatists 
of those days never thought of their stage as rigid, 
but as supremely plastic, and calmly planned for what- 
ever they desired, trusting to skilled carpenters and 
mother wit to create what they had planned. Perhaps 
the direction in Brome's Covent Garden Weeded that 
Dorcas, who has just appeared above " upon a bellconie," 
shall "run down the stairs" means only that she shall 
be heard running down them behind the scenes, but 
one is not so sure in Two Murders in One, 1 that some 
construction connecting the lower and the upper stage 
was not used. Merry, the murderous innkeeper, states 
his plan to lure his neighbor, Beech, to the garret and 
there kill him. He says : — 

" And therefore I will place the hammer here 
And take it as I follow Beech up staires, 
That suddenly, before he is aware, 
I may with blowes dash out his hatefull braines." 

Later he bids Beech " Goe up these staires, your 
friends do stay above," picking up the concealed ham- 
mer as his victim precedes him. Later when Rachel, 
the sister, goes to see who is above, the direction is, not 
as elsewhere, Exit, but Exit up. Moreover, in this same 
play it looks as if the actors may have used one of the 

1 A Collection of Old English Plays, A. H. Bullen, Vol. IV, pp. 19-22. 

[82] 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

nearest boxes as the home of Beech. After the villain 
has stated his murderous scheme, comes the direction, 
"Then Merry must passe to Beeches shoppe, who 
must set in his shop, and Winchester his boy stand by : 
Beech reading." If the shop were set under the upper 
stage, Merry must originally enter well at one side, as 
must Rachel and Williams when they enter because 
they have heard some one going upstairs. Yet as the 
speeches at all these entrances are important, and the 
"garret" is just above centre entrance, it would be 
much more natural and more effective to give the 
speeches at centre back. That, however, necessitates 
using one of the neighboring boxes as Beech's shop. 

Nor can we forgot the tents set up in full sight of 
the audience in many of these plays. Sometimes, as in 
Lucrece (Act III, Sc. 3), a single tent was probably 
represented by curtains shutting in at least the front 
of the space under the "Heavens," but this is not the 
case with the following from The Piatt of the Secound 
Parte of the Seven Deadlie Sinns, "A tent being plast on 
the stage for Henry the Sixt." * 

Let us remember, too, as we try to enforce for the 
Shakespearian stage limiting conditions, that in the 
use of traps and mechanical devices it was both ingen- 
ious and prolific. Is it likely, then, that either drama- 
tist or actor would have consented to the use of only 
three doors at most, and those always at the same spot ? 

Now to the extremely complicated question of cur- 

1 Malone's Shakespeare, Vol. Ill, Prolegomena, p. 348. 

[83] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

tains on the English stage between 1590 and 1642. 
Curtains, in our modern sense of hangings at the front 
of the stage which could be drawn together, were un- 
doubtedly used in a large number of performances at 
Court/ and in some of these professional actors played. 
Every one grants that a hanging of some sort was often 
placed at the back of the public stage, falling from the 
lower edge of the upper stage. We know from a print 
of the Eed Bull Theatre late in its history that the 
upper stage could be curtained off, 2 and in the Thracian 
Wonder, assigned to John Webster, we have the direction, 
"Pythia above behind the curtain." In Henry VIII 
(Act V, Sc. 2), after the direction, " Enter the King 
and Buts, at a window above," the King says : — 

" Let 'em alone, and draw the curtain close : 
We shall hear more anon." 

In Lady Alimony, a play not printed till 1659, but 
written before 1642, we find the lines, "Be your stage 
curtains artificially drawn and so covertly shrouded, 
that the squint-eyed groundling may not peep in?" 
That implies curtains drawing together at the middle. 
Moreover, if it referred only to a curtain at the very 
back of the stage, would the groundlings be near enough 
to give point to the remark? 

The epilogue to Tancred and Gismunda (1568) has 
this line, "Now draw the curtains, for the scene is 

1 Accounts of Revels at Court, Cunningham (Old Shaks. So.), pp. 85, 
86, 90, for curtain-rings, wire, and curtains. 

2 See p. 230. 

[84] 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

done." Even if it be urged that Tancred and Gis- 
munda was given by the gentlemen of the Temple in 
a hall and not a theatre, it shows what can be per- 
fectly established for performances at Court, that 
front curtains were not unknown in dramatic perfor- 
mances of the time. The only question is, Were they 
used in public theatres? 

Evidently any such curtains were impossible on a 
stage like that of the Red Bull. That is, the stage of 
the strictly public theatres forbade front curtains unless 
the theatre had " Heavens." It certainly is not clear 
that all of the theatres between 1590 and 1600 had this 
structure. Is it likely, however, that in those theatres 
where the " Heavens" made it easy to hang a curtain or 
curtains between the front pillars, no actor or manager 
would have seen the opportunity for shifting properties 
to better advantage and marking off scenes clearly? 
Even if they did not reach this subtle discovery for 
themselves, how could they fail, after taking part in 
Court performances in which curtains greatly simplified 
and improved the stage management, to reproduce the 
desirable conditions as closely as their stage permitted ? 

It would seem that the stage directions of the old 
plays ought to settle this question, but in the use of 
the word " arras," " curtain," and " curtains," on the 
lower stage, there is great confusion. Out of a hundred 
and thirty plays of the period examined, the word 
" curtain" appears twenty-two times apparently re- 
ferring to the stage proper. Sometimes it appears as 

[85] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 



a 



a curtain," sometimes as "the curtain." In these 
plays the "traverse," curiously enough, is mentioned 
but three times. 1 From the various cases of the 
arras it is clear that it might be either a hanging at the 
back of the stage or some curtain farther out. For 
instance, we have in The Merry Wives of Windsor 
both "Falstaff stands behind the arras," and "He steps 
between the arras," which require nothing but the hang- 
ing at the back of the stage, and in Tamburlaine, Pt. II, 
"The arras is drawn, and Zenocrate is discovered ly- 
ing in her bed of state; Tamburlaine sitting by her; 
three physicians about her bed tempering potions ; her 
three sons and others." The last direction demands a 
large space, and, to be well seen, must have been given 
in the space under the "Heavens." That is, the stage 
directions of the plays provide no decisive proof on the 
question. I think, however, that no one who studies 
them carefully, especially if he has also an opportunity 
to stage a revival of one of the Elizabethan plays, can 
fail to feel that some of the theatres at certain times 
had a curtain or curtains somewhere on the front stage, 
probably between the pillars of the "Heavens." I 
say not only "some theatres," because not all had 
"Heavens," but also "at certain times," because it is 
likely that as the popularity of a theatre lapsed neces- 
sary repairs may not have included rebuilding the 
"Heavens." At least, we know that the Globe had 
this structure, and we see in the print of the second 

1 Twice in Godly Queen Hester and once in The White Devil. 

[86] 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

Globe two huts projecting into the pit from the wall 
back of the stage just where the " Heavens" should 
be; yet in the Lancashire Witches, played at the 
Globe in 1634, we have the direction, "A bed thrust 
out, Mrs. Gener(ous) in't, Whetstone, Mall Spencer 
by her." * As, in the presence of such conflicting evi- 
dence, every piece of testimony is of possible value, it is 
worth noting that in the revivals under Mr. Poel by 
the Elizabethan Stage Society of London and in the 
revivals at Harvard University, two wholly indepen- 
dent experiments, a front curtain has been used. 

Treating this question resolves itself into limiting it 
very narrowly and then reaching a conclusion phrased 
as a query. In the first place, caution is necessary. 
Tableaux effects meant to produce a result only as 
wholes could perfectly well be revealed by drawing the 
arras at the back and showing a group posed in the 
space underneath the upper stage. There, or in the 
upper stage itself, the procession of kings appearing 
to Richard III or to Macbeth could perfectly well be 
placed. But there are other scenes which because of 
the numbers in them, their complicated movements, 
and the necessity that they should be clearly seen and 
heard, must have taken place at least as far forward 
as the space underneath the canopy. For instance, it 
is not easy to believe that any dramatist as sensitive 

1 Possibly, as the play is held to be a reuniting of a Heywood play 
by Richard Brome, the stage direction belongs not to the Globe per- 
formance, but the earlier one. 

[87] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

to stage effects as Marlowe, or that any group of men 
as sensitive as are actors to making their effects reach 
their audience, would have united in playing one of the 
most lyrical and emotional scenes of Tamburlaine — 
that quoted in treating of the arras — so far back that 
it must have been out of sight for many of the audience, 
and inaudible to even more. It seems to me, too, 
that the repeated directions in the plays, such as, 
" She's drawn out upon a bed," "They bring him in 
in a chair/' have no significance if the space under 
the balcony was a perfectly good place for other than 
tableaux effects. Why not simply draw the arras and 
discover her in bed or him in his chair ? That they are 
brought down means two things : the space under the 
balcony was a bad place for important scenes, and in 
some of the theatres of Shakespeare's day there was 
no curtain on the main stage except that at the back. 
It is notable that these cruder arrangements are much 
more common before 1595 than after that date. Let 
us remember at the outset, too, that the proof in favor 
of a curtain or curtains between the pillars of the 
" Heavens" is not that certain scenes cannot be pre- 
sented without them, but that the use of them makes 
possible a concealed placing of heavy properties, pro- 
vides a larger stage for important dialogue, increases 
the movement of the play because one scene could be 
set while another was playing on the front stage, and was 
a very simple and obvious means to these important 
ends. In Scene 4, Act V, of Webster's White Devil, the 

[88] 



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stage directions run, "Enter Flam[ineo] and Gasp[aro] 
at one dore, another way, attended, Giovanni." These 
entrances are by the doors opening on the spaces to 
left and right outside the canopy or "Heavens." 
After the exit of Giovanni and the coming of a courtier 
with news that Flamineo is banished from the Duke's 
presence, Francisco enters overcome with the pity of 
Cornelia's mourning for her son Marcello. He reports 
that he has just left her winding, with other women, the 
dead lad's corpse. Flamineo cries : — 

" I will see them. 
They are behind the travers. He discover 
Their superstitious howling. 

Cornelia, the Moore, and 3 other Ladies discovered, 
winding Marcello's coarse. A song." 

Then follows a scene in which the grief-maddened 
mother prattles to the men like another Ophelia. Of 
course the scene could be given by treating the traverse 
as a curtain hanging at the back of the stage under the 
upper stage, but how cramped and ineffective the scene 
would be as contrasted with playing all the early part 
on the front stage, letting Francisco enter through 
curtains hung between the pillars, and having Flamineo 
draw these when he speaks of the traverse. A scene 
even more ineffective if played on the back stage under 
the balcony is the third in the fifth act of the same 
play. After Brachiano has been borne off very ill, 
Francisco and two others stand gossiping, when sud- 
denly Francisco cries, "See, here he comes!" and the 

[89] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

direction follows, " Enter Brachiano, presented in a 
bed; Vittoria and others." The death of Brachiano 
is preceded by very dramatic ravings which are to be 
given, as the old stage directions says, as " several kinds 
of distractions and in the action should appear." Does 
it seem likely that all this would take place at the back 
of the stage? Grant that a curtain is drawn between 
the pillars at the words, "See, here he comes !" and all 
is simple. 

Note, too, how much a front curtain simplifies and 
improves the presentation of such a succession of 
stage directions as the following from Henry VIII 
(Act II, Sc. 2, of modern editions), " Enter Lord 
Chamberlain reading this letter." When the letter is 
read, " Enter to the Lord Chamberlain the Dukes of 
Norfolk and Suffolk." After the three have talked of 
Wolsey's unloved influence with the King, "Exit Lord 
Chamberlain, and the King draws the curtains and sits 
reading pensively." When Suffolk comments to Nor- 
folk on the King's looks, Henry cries out angrily, as if 
interrupted in his meditations. Very shortly Wolsey 
and Campeius enter and an important scene for under- 
standing the plot follows. Of course this scene could 
be played by using the whole stage for the Chamber- 
lain, Norfolk, and Suffolk, letting the King draw back 
the curtain at the edge of the gallery stage ; but in that 
case he could not sit long reading pensively, for what 
is said and done is so important that it must be played 
far enough forward to be seen and heard. Moreover, 

C 90] 



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unless we admit the use of doors to left and right 
outside the " Heavens/ ' Wolsey and Campeius enter 
through the place where the King is sitting or where 
his table or chair still stands. All this a front curtain 
simplifies and strengthens. The Chamberlain and the 
two Dukes would hold their converse on the front 
stage with the curtain of the inner stage drawn. When 
the first has gone out, the King would draw the curtain 
and be seen at his table, centre stage, in meditation. 
From that place he could for some time talk with the 
Dukes without rising. Wolsey and Campeius would 
enter either by the side doors or under the gallery. 
Is it not noteworthy, too, that the scene following 
this, that in which the Chamberlain brings to Anne 
Boleyn and her attendant news of her creation as 
Marchioness of Pembroke, could perfectly well be 
played on the front stage ; but the next is the crowded 
scene of the trial with its elaborate entry and its large 
properties such as the chair of stage ? Curtains drawn 
at the end of the scene with the King allowed, while the 
scene with Anne was playing, the placing of the prop- 
erties essential for the final scene of the act. If it be 
maintained that the next act opens with what may have 
been a curtain scene, the answer is that the pause be- 
tween the acts gave time, behind the drawn curtains, 
for any necessary change of properties. Indeed, it is 
difficult to understand how these long plays which, 
because of the exigencies of modern scenery, we must 
cut severely if they are to be given in two hours and a 

[91] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

half, were given in an afternoon unless time was econo- 
mized by the placing of any elaborate properties during 
the course of a preceding scene. In Scene 3 of Act I 
in Henry VIII there is talk of a banquet at Cardinal 
Wolsey's, to which Sir Henry Gilbert and the Lord 
Chamberlain depart in the latter's barge. This scene 
could perfectly well be played upon the front stage, and 
then as soon as it was cleared the curtains of the inner 
stage could be drawn and this setting revealed: "A 
small table under a state for the Cardinal, a longer table 
for the guests. Then enter Anne Boleyn and divers 
other ladies and gentlemen as guests at one door; 
at another door enter Sir Henry Guilford." Moreover, 
any delay is at times fatal to the full dramatic effective- 
ness of the scene. For instance, the poignant irony 
of Scene 2 of Act III in Romeo and Juliet can be felt 
only if the audience turns instantly from watching the 
banishment of Romeo to Juliet waiting for his coming 
in a very ecstasy of unforeboding happiness. We lose 
these effects to-day because of our cumbersome scenery. 
So, too, did the Elizabethan dramatist in certain in- 
stances unless he could arrange his properties for one 
scene while a preceding was acting. 

Cymbeline, too (Act II, Scs. 1 and 2), argues for 
this front curtain in its theatre. If we hold to only a 
curtain at the back, then Scene 1, of Cloten and the 
two lords, has taken place on the full stage, — a waste 
of good room ; Imogen in bed is either revealed under 
the balcony or is thrust out from under it, and the trunk 

[92] 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

containing Iachimo is brought on, not by his men, as 
in a preceding scene he said it would be, but by stage 
supers. At the end of the scene, when Iachimo has 
entered the trunk again, the bed is drawn out of sight 
or the rear curtain dropped, and the trunk removed. 
What a clumsy and ineffective presentation of the 
central scene -in the play ! With a front curtain all is 
simple. Clot en plays his scene on the front stage. 
The curtain shutting off the inner stage is drawn, re- 
vealing Imogen in bed, her candle on her table near at 
hand, her woman waiting, and the trunk well placed 
for the needs of the scene. At the end the curtain is 
drawn, and bed and trunk can be removed without any 
destroying of the illusion. 

The Sophonisba 1 of John Marston shows in Act IV a 
set of directions hard to interpret without the front 
curtain. "Scena prima. Organs, viols and voices, 
play for this Act. Enter Sophonisba and Zanthia, as 
out of a caves mouth," presumably from some setting 
at the back of the stage under the balcony, but possibly 
from some set piece on the centre stage. The scene is 
the Forest of Belos (1. 4). Exit Zanthia in search of 
food. " Through the vautes mouth, in his night gowne, 
torch in his hand Syphax enters just behind Sophon- 
isba." After the exit of Sophonisba, Syphax declares 
that he will fly to the " wonder-working spirits" for 
aid in winning her, and speaks of the scene as a desert. 
He summons Erictho, "Inf email musicke playes softly, 

1 Works of John Marston, J. O. Halliwell, Vol. I, pp. 191-199. 

[93] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

whilest Erictho enters, and, when she speakes, ceaseth." 
After a long scene, she promises to aid him, and goes 
to prepare her charm. Again there is "inf email 
musicke softly" and a voice within cries, " Erictho." 
"A treble viall, &c, a base lute, play softly within the 
canopy." Then there is "a short song to soft musicke 
above." The next direction is, " Enter Erictho in the 
shape of Sophonisba, her face vailed, and hasteth in 
the bed of Syphax." Now where is that bed, if the 
cave's mouth occupies either centre stage or the space 
under the gallery? Finally we have, " Syphax hast- 
neth within the canopy, as to Sophonisba's bed." 
What is this mysterious canopy? The next act opens 
with the direction, "Syphax drawes the curtaines, 
and discovers Erictho lying with him." Any setting 
without a front curtain makes this difficult to handle 
and leaves the "canopy" vague. With the front cur- 
tain, the directions mean this : Sophonisba and Zanthia 
enter through the cave, either on centre stage, or, more 
probably, under the gallery. Through this Syphax 
also enters. After the exit of Sophonisba, Syphax, 
with his words as to flying to the wonder-working spirits, 
steps out to the front stage, and the front curtain is 
closed. This allows the cave to be disposed of and the 
bed to be put on. The music of the late part of the 
scene, "within the canopy," comes from behind the 
curtains, that is, within the "Heavens" space. Erictho 
and Syphax both make exits into the "canopy," that 
is, through the front curtain. At the opening of the 

[94] 




St. Paul's Cathedral and St. Gregory's 
(The Music Room of the " Children of Powles" was in St. Gregory's.) 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

next act, Syphax draws this curtain, revealing Erictho 
lying by him. 1 

Two objections are especially raised against use of 
the front curtain: the first is, that for complete pro- 
tection when properties were shifted there must be 
curtains between the pillars of the "Heavens" and the 
wall quite as much as in front. Is there any really 
strong protest even to-day when many of the side seats 
in our theatres get very disillusionizing glimpses of the 
wings, the shifters, and the prompter? Certainly, 
so far as mechanical difficulty was concerned, there 
could have been no trouble in drawing not only the 
front but two side curtains from behind the scenes. 

The other objection is more serious. Plays exist in 
which the action is transferred from front stage to 
upper stage. If the front curtain were as high as in 
the reproductions by the London Elizabethan Society 
and the Department of English at Harvard University, 
such a change would be impossible. The prints on 
pp. 240 and 250 will make this clear. A lower curtain 
— just what a traverse is technically — running a little 

1 Were not What you will (1601) of Mars ton evidently acted in a 
private theatre, probably by the Chapel Children at Blackfriars, it 
would be strong testimony for curtains in the public theatres. " In- 
duction: Before the musicke sounds for this Acte, enter Atticus, 
Doricus, and Phylomusus ; they sit a good while on the Stage before 
the candles are lighted, talking together." Later Atticus cries: 
" Come, we straine the spectators patience in delaying expected 
delightes. Lets place ourselves within the curtaines, for good faith the 
stage is so very little, we shall wrong the generall eye els very much." 

[95] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

below the edge of the upper stage would meet this 
difficulty. But it is nearly useless to discuss, in the 
light of present evidence, any particular arrangement 
of the front curtain. On the other hand, from much 
study of the quartos and folios, and from repeated ex- 
perience in reproducing Elizabethan plays, I have no 
doubt that Shakespeare during the greater part of his 
career as a dramatist could use practically four divi- 
sions on his stage : front, inner, back, and upper stage, 
with three curtains, one in the balcony, another under 
the balcony, and a third somewhere in front. I would 
not maintain, however, that this held good for all thea- 
tres, nor even for any one theatre throughout its 
whole history. These possibilities permitted any skilled 
dramatist an alternation of scenes when he desired, 
but did not exact it as some writers seem to think, and 
allowed him to run off his play rapidly, finishing it 
easily in two hours and a half. 

Were the properties so often referred to, the occa- 
sional sign, and the poetical description, the only stimu- 
lations to the imagination of the Elizabethan and 
Jacobean audience? What backed the rear of the 
upper balcony? Of course it had some backing. Was 
it a mere dead wall? Henslowe, in an inventorv of 
properties made on the 10th of March, 1598, mentions 
"The sittie of Rome." 1 That sounds like a cloth with 
a perspective on it of Rome. Henslowe names, too, 
a " cloth of the Sone and Mone." 1 Where did he hang 

1 Henslowe's Diary, J. P. Collier (Old Shaks. So.), p. 273. 

[96] 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

that? Some years ago an architect who was recon- 
structing from the old contracts for the Fortune and 
the Hope an Elizabethan theatre suggested to the writer 
that the second of the huts seen in the print of the later 
Globe must at least in part have overhung the upper 
stage, and that consequently it would have been per- 
fectly easy to lower from the hut any backing desired 
for that upper stage. In three performances at Har- 
vard University a painted cloth has been dropped into 
this upper gallery. Of course this was done with full 
recognition of the fact that, though " painted cloths/' 
"frames," and "citties" are common enough in the 
Accounts of the Revels at Court, the instances already 
cited are the only ones occurring in Henslowe's Diary, 
our only satisfactory record of the properties of an 
Elizabethan theatre. Yet the results in Epiccene, in 
Hamlet, and in Ralegh in Guiana, a play in imitation 
of the Elizabethan manner, were such as to leave any 
fair-minded observer more than ever doubtful whether 
the dramatist of Shakespeare's day could have missed 
the chance a painted cloth in the upper stage at times 
gave him. In Ralegh it was necessary to suggest to the 
audience a ship's cabin (p. 280). A companionway, with 
a rope railing, was built over one of the rear entrances. 
A painted cloth showing the rigging and the rail of 
a ship was dropped into the upper stage. A few 
sea chests were placed on the main stage. The sug- 
gestion of a ship and its cabin was complete. In 
face of the facts that Henslowe's inventory con- 
h [97] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

tains the "cloth of the Sone and Mone," and also "3 
payer of stayers for Fayeton," * can it be said that any 
real violence was done to Elizabethan staging? Of 
course this use of any painted cloths about the public 
stage is the most dubious of all the matters thus far 
considered, but against our lack of references to them 
may be offset the need of some backing for the upper 
stage, the frequency of their use at Court, the imita- 
tiveness of the actor, and the large result given by them. 
All this examination of detail amounts to just this. 
Though the stage of Shakespeare was different from 
our own, and though in the opening chorus of Henry V 
he may have written somewhat mournfully of "this 
wooden 0" when his company were acting at the old- 
fashioned Theatre, it was by no means ill equipped 
from 1598 when the Globe was built, and adequately 
responded to the developing needs of the drama. It did 
call for more imagination and sympathetic response 
from the audience than does our own ; but the actors, 
thrust out into the midst of the audience as they were, 
could get a quicker response than can our own, who 
are always framed in like a picture. In a word, the 
conditions of the Shakespearian stage were intimate 
to an extent we scarcely realize and permitted a detail 
not always possible in our larger theatres. Above all, 
everything in the performance tended to make the play 
the thing : no lavish scenery drew off the attention, 
properties were usually employed only to the extent that 
1 Henslowe's Diary, J. P. Collier (Old Shaks. So.), p. 273. 

[98] 



THE STAGE OF SHAKESPEARE 

the play demanded; there were no " stars," and both 
actor and hearer must give themselves up to the author, 
the one to interpret, the other to understand, if the 
play was to produce its full effect. Is it not evident 
that, for the dramatist, conditions were far better than 
to-day, indeed, well-nigh perfect? 



Note. — The best of recent special studies of the Elizabethan stage 
are Die Shakespeare- Biihne nach den alten Buhnenanweisungen, Dr. 
Cecil Brodmeier, and Some Principles of Elizabethan Staging, Dr. G. F. 
Reynolds, first published in Modern Philology, April and June, 
1905, but since republished in pamphlet form. This pamphlet 
of Dr. Reynolds' is noteworthy for its sanity and thoroughness. 
Malone's Prolegomena remains even yet the best collection of cita- 
tions illustrating all the aspects of the Elizabethan theatre. 



[99] 



CHAPTER III 

EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING AND ADAPTATION 

AT present our public is badly confused as to the 
right use of the word " dramatic." Starting with 
the undeniable assertion that the novels of our chief 
writers contain many a dramatic scene, the public 
reaches the wholly false conclusion that because of this 
dramatic feeling these same writers should be equally 
successful as dramatists. Mr. Pinero, in his lecture 
Robert Louis Stevenson : The Dramatist, makes a funda- 
mental distinction in regard to the use of the word 
"dramatic" which I must ask the reader to bear con- 
stantly in mind throughout the rest of this book. He 
says: "What is dramatic talent? Is it not the power 
to project characters and to cause them to tell an inter- 
esting story through the medium of dialogue ? This is 
dramatic talent ; and dramatic talent, if I may so ex- 
press it, is the raw material of theatrical talent. Dra- 
matic, like poetic, talent is born, not made ; if it is to 
achieve success on the stage, it must be developed into 
theatrical talent by hard study, and generally by long 
practice. For theatrical talent consists in the power of 
making your characters not only tell a story by means 
of dialogue, but tell it in such skilfully devised form 
and order as shall, within the limits of an ordinary 

[100] 



EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

theatrical representation, give rise to the greatest pos- 
sible amount of that peculiar kind of emotional effect, 
the production of which is the one great function of the 
theatre." * 

In this book we are to try to discern in Shakespeare's 
plays both such permanent principles and such ephem- 
eral experimentation as lay behind the form and the 
order which gave rise to that intense emotional effect 
of which Shakespeare undoubtedly became a master. 
That is, in studying how, under the conditions of his 
stage, he accomplished his artistic purposes while so 
adapting his material as to gain from his particular 
audience the greatest possible amount of emotional 
response to his material, we shall try to arrive at his 
technique. " There are two parts of technique, — 
its strategy and its tactics/ ' Strategy is the general 
laying-out of a play. Tactics is "the art of getting 
characters on and off the stage, of conveying informa- 
tion to the audience, etc." 2 These two essentials of 
technique we shall look for first in Love's Labour's Lost, 
The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Titus Andronicus, and 
The Comedy of Errors — all plays usually dated not later 
than 1594. 

It is not necessary here to discuss mooted questions 
in regard to the exact date at which Shakespeare began 
to write for the stage or his earlier years in London. 

1 Robert Louis Stevenson : The Dramatist, pp. 6-7, A. W. Pinero, 
Chiswick Press, London, 1903. 

2 Idem, p. 13. 

[101] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

It is enough for us to be sure that by 1592 he had been 
declared excellent as an actor, and that by that year 
he had already begun as a dramatist. 1 It is certainly 
interesting as indirect evidence of contemporary opinion 
of his earliest efforts, order them as we may, that his 
first widespread popularity came to him through his 
Venus and Adonis (April, 1593) and his Rape of Lu- 
crece (1594). Their reception was enthusiastic and last- 
ing. 2 In the dedication of Venus and Adonis, to the 
Earl of Southampton, Shakespeare calls the poem the 
" first heir of my invention," so that it may even have 
been written or planned before any of his dramatic 
work. Viewed in one way the two poems are but 
two specially successful examples of a vogue for erotic 
verse which was marked in the decade of 1590-1600. 
Yet the willingness the young Shakespeare shows 
in both poems to try his hand on a subject and in 
a form particularly acceptable to the public at the 
moment, and his widely acclaimed success, prove that, 
at the outset of his career, he possessed some chief 
requisites of a successful playwright. Here are readi- 
ness and ability to tell his audience something it wished 
to hear, in such a way as to gain a wide response and 

1 Chettle, in 1592, declared Shakespeare "exelent in the qualitie 
he professes." "Qualitie" was the Elizabethan word for the actor's 
profession. In A Groats-worth of Wit bought with a Million of Repentance 
(1592) Robert Greene, attacking him as "Shake-scene," is evidently 
jealous of his success as a playwright. 

2 For some proof of this see Life of Shakespeare, pp. 78-79, Sid- 
ney Lee. 

[102] 



EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

yet keep his product on the high level of literary art. 
There can, too, be no question as to the dramatic power 
of these poems, for surely both " project characters 
and cause them to tell an interesting story through the 
medium of a dialogue/ y On the other hand, any 
thoughtful reading of Venus and Adonis and The Rape 
of Lucrece must demonstrate that a poet rather than a 
dramatist is at work. The very wealth of sensuous 
imagery accumbers the dramatic movement, particularly 
in the latter half of Venus and Adonis. Each poem shows 
Shakespeare doing what the poet may freely do, but the 
dramatist only very rarely : namely, lingering over his 
material by the ingenious or richly imaginative repeti- 
tion of the same idea, situation, or conceit. In both these 
poems it is not primarily the situation, not primarily 
the characterization, but the opportunities the material 
offers for sensuous imagery and the display of conscious 
artistry in poetic narrative which attracted Shake- 
speare. Yet, undeniably, he could already by his imagi- 
nation closely sympathize with some intense, human 
experience. Essentially untheatric, then, as the treat- 
ment is, one may yet discern in these two poems a 
promising endowment; poetic narrative is already 
Shakespeare's; sympathetic understanding of passion- 
ate experience and the power to phrase it, are his; 
and he has proved himself successful in so presenting 
material desired by his public as to give it wide and 
lasting success. But if this youth is to become a great 
dramatist, if he is not to remain a Thomas Dekker, 

[103] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

whose rich early promise never ripened into a 
mastered art equal to all demands made upon it, 
that sympathetic understanding of human beings 
must be widened and deepened infinitely; that abil- 
ity in poetic dramatic narrative must be metamor- 
phosed into dramatic narrative for theatrical purposes 
by repeated, conscientious, self-criticising practice; 
and that readiness to serve the public must be 
checked and guided by a stern artistic conscience, if 
its own facility is not to land all the endeavor in 
accomplishment of great ephemeral success, but no 
permanent value. 

Before we analyze Shakespeare's earliest dramatic 
work, just a word of warning as to a qualification with 
which any conclusions as to the plays of this first 
decade of Shakespeare's must be drawn: we do not 
know that we possess the whole body of Shakespeare's 
dramatic composition — original, collaborative, and, 
above all, adaptations of older materials. It certainly 
seems odd that in a period when plays were turned out 
very rapidly and at a time in Shakespeare's career 
when, for financial reasons, he would need to turn out 
plays as speedily as possible, he should have produced, 
so far as we know, between 1590 and 159d, only some 
eight or nine plays, fully half of those adaptations of 
dramatic material already existing. Moreover, that 
mysterious title given by Francis Meres in 1598 1 for 

1 In his Palladis Tamia, where he gives a rough list of plays of 
Shakespeare whose titles he recalls at the moment. 

[104] 




The Nave 

St. Paul's Cathedral 



EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

one of Shakespeare's plays, namely, Love's Labour's Won, 
means either another name for a play now known to us 
or a lost product of his pen. I mention this because it 
must always be borne in mind, when one hears gener- 
alization in regard to the swiftness of Shakespeare's 
development between 1590 and 1594, and particularly 
as to the marked contrast between the plays written 
before and after that date. The evidence for some 
stages in his development may be wholly lost to us. 

As I shall take up the three parts of Henry VI when 
treating the Chronicle Plays in the next chapter, let us 
now examine Love's Labour's Lost. We know that 
it was first printed in 1598 in quarto, bearing on the 
title-page the words, "as presented before her Highness 
the last Xmas, newly corrected and augmented by W. 
Shakespeare." As Mr. Sidney Lee has said : " There is 
no external evidence to prove that any piece in which 
Shakespeare had a hand was produced before the spring 
of 1592. No play by him was published before 1597, 
and none bore his name on the title-page until 1598. 
But his first essay has been with confidence allotted to 
1591. To Love's Labour's Lost may reasonably be 
assigned priority in point of time of all Shakespeare's 
dramatic productions. Internal evidence alone indi- 
cates the date of composition, and proves that it was 
an early effort." * What complicates generalizations in 
regard to it is internal evidence that the statement of 
the title-page, " newly corrected and augmented," is 

1 Life of Shakespeare, p. 50. 
[105] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

true. In the first place, the acts are singularly dis- 
proportionate in length. The first, fourth, and fifth, 
as printed in the Globe edition, run respectively 4, 6j, 
and 10 pages and the second and third 2\ and barely 2 
pages. It is noteworthy that in the fourth and the fifth 
act there is evident addition, 1 and that the long acts 

1 In Act V, lines 827-832, when the Princess and her ladies are 
naming for their respective lovers the tests of devotion which they 
wish them to undergo, Biron, immediately after the King has heard 
his test from the Princess, speaks as follows: — 

Biron. And what to me, my love? and what to me? 

Rosaline. You must be purged, too, your sins are rank; 
You are attaint with faults and perjury ; 
Therefore, if you my favor mean to get, 
A twelvemonth shall you spend, and never rest, . 
But seek the weary beds of people sick. 

Following this comes the similar dialogue between Dumain and Catha- 
rine of some dozen or more lines, after which Biron and Rosaline 
again speak as follows : — 

Biron. Studies my lady ? mistress, look on me. 
Behold the window of my heart, mine eye, 
What humble suit attends thy answer there; 
Impose some service on me for thy love. 

Rosaline. Oft have I heard of you, my lord Biron, 
Before I saw you, and the world' s large tongue 
Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks ; 
Full of comparisons and wounding flouts, 
Which you on all estates will execute, 
That lie within the mercy of your wit : 
To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain, 
And, therewithal, to win me, if you please, 
Without the which I am not to be won, 
You shall this twelvemonth term, from day to day, 
Visit the speechless sick, and still converse 
With groaning wretches; and your task shall be, 
With all the fierce endeavor of your wit, 
To enforce the pained impotent to smile. 

[106] 



EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

contain all except one scene of purely comic material. 
It is usually conceded, too, that the large amount 
of rhyme in this play shows it was written early in 
Shakespeare's career, when blank verse and prose had 
not completely superseded the older forms of dramatic 
expression. 

One must hesitate a little, also, in generalizing about 
Love's Labour's Lost because the play suggests more 
than once that it was written for some special occasion 
or audience. If this be true, the circumstances govern- 
ing its writing may have led even the young Shake- 
speare to vary what was at the time his dramatic prac- 
tice. For instance, no wholly satisfactory reason has 
been suggested for the curious ending, which defers 
the complete settlement of the love story for a year and 
deprives the audience of its time-honored satisfaction 
in seeing every Jack sure of his Jill. The general atti- 
tude of the play toward women, the sonneteering, 

Clearly this is merely an amplification of the first quotation. Again 
there is repetition in the very long speech of Biron near the end of Scene 
3, Act IV, lines 302-305 and 350-354. Biron says first: — 
" From women' s eyes this doctrine I derive : 
They are the ground, the books, the Academes, 
From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire." 

Some forty-five lines later in the same speech, he says : — 
"From women's eyes this doctrine I derive: 
They sparkle still the right Promethean fire; 
They are the books, the arts, the Academes, 
That show, contain, and nourish all the world, 
Else none at all in aught proves excellent." 

Evidently the printer allowed both the original and the insert to 
slip into the quarto. 

[107] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

and, above all, the eulogy of woman which Biron utters 
near the end of Act IV, suggest strongly that originally, 
as well as in 1598, it may have been performed before 
the queen and her court, or that as first written 
it was given before an audience mainly composed of 
women. Throughout, the characters so much play with 
love rather than become its subjects that one wonders 
whether it was not composed as a whole with a definite 
view of pleasing the Virgin Queen, who was such an 
adept in coquetry and who was so fond of putting off 
her admirers just as they seemed nearest to the attain- 
ment of their wishes. 

Whatever the conditions of the original production, 
however, it seems wholly unnecessary to search for 
the source from which this play was developed. Every- 
body admits the thinness of the story and the meagre 
dramatic incident. The fact is, Love's Labour's Lost is 
just the sort of play a young man of poetic and literary 
endowment — which we have seen Shakespeare had in 
Venus and Adonis and The Rape of Lucrece — would 
write, in 1590-1595, for some special audience in which 
the feminine element predominated. Such an audience 
would be best pleased if lightly entertained rather than 
called upon to appreciate either fine characterization 
or a skilful telling of a complicated story. By such an 
audience the play would be judged, not only as a play, 
but for its literary finish. It would delight in a love 
story which idealized woman and sang her praises. 
Moreover the story, as it stands, is made up of material 

[108] 



EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

already well tested by 1590. Shakespeare knew that 
audiences delighted in confusion brought about by the 
wrong delivery of love letters — here that of Biron to 
Rosaline and that of Don Armado to Jaquenetta ; that 
they derived keen satisfaction also from confusion re- 
sulting when lovers, mistaking their mistresses, poured 
out their affections to the wrong persons ; that they were 
amused by any contrasting of the loves of a noble and a 
comic figure, as in Biron and Don Armado ; and that 
they were infinitely entertained by such burlesques 
as that of The Nine Worthies. Weave these strands 
together, even if loosely, and the result for an audience 
not critical in dramatic technique must be alluring. 
Recognizing that a particular audience finds a keen 
zest in listening to whatever is couched in an elabo- 
rate style popular at the moment, to whatever exhibits 
rich and various imagery, and even to verse experimen- 
tation, skilfully phrase your material so that it shall 
appeal to all these interests even as it tells the slight 
story we have just been analyzing, and, presto ! you 
have Love's Labour's Lost. Just in this appears one 
of the chief significances of this play in a study of 
Shakespeare's technique ; it reveals the fact that very 
early in his career, and even before he was an adequate 
technician, instinctively or consciously he brought into 
his plays, as into his two early poems, elements of strong 
popular appeal. 

Certainly from the side of plot Love's Labour's Lost 
shows that the young Shakespeare, as is to be expected, 

[109] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

was weak. He starts the play with relative swiftness 
in the two scenes of Act I by making us understand 
the Quixotic agreement of the king and his nobles, the 
seizure of Costard and Jaquenetta by Armado for 
breach of the proclamation forbidding a youth to be 
"taken with a wench," and Armado's confession that he 
is smitten with sudden love for Jaquenetta. Act II 
gives us the meeting of the King and his nobles, on the 
one hand, with the Princess and her ladies on the other, 
and the prompt dissipation of the determination of the 
men not to look on women for a year. We are now 
ready, at the beginning of Act III, for some dramatic 
results of the complications in the two groups, — from 
the love of Costard and Armado for Jaquenetta and 
of the foresworn nobles and King for the Princess and 
her ladies, — but this act does not advance the story 
a particle except in some eight or ten lines near the end, 
when Biron arranges with Costard to carry his love- 
letter to Rosaline. Though that commission keeps us 
in suspense, it can hardly prevent an act, otherwise 
given over to mere fooling and amusing characterization 
that approaches caricature, from becoming something 
like a dead centre. Act IV goes somewhat better, but 
in Scenes 1 and 2 the handling is not strongly dramatic. 
Graceful and ingenious talk leads in Scene 1 to the lines 
in which Costard presents the Princess by mistake with 
the letter of Don Armado to Jaquenetta. The comic 
possibilities of this mistake are taken rather rapidly, 
and the scene closes with quite as much emphasis given 

[110] 



EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

to mere badinage on totally different subjects. Scene 
2 shows somewhat similar proportions between the time 
spent on the letter of Biron which has been handed 
to Jaquenetta and on the quibbling and pedantry of 
Holof ernes, Sir Nathaniel, and Dull both before the 
letter is read and thereafter. Scene 3, of course, is 
admirable dramatically up to the point when Jaque- 
netta's coming with the letter of Biron forces him to ad- 
mit his hypocrisy in scoffing at his fellow-lovers. There 
is admirable comic climax as the King, Longaville, and 
Dumain enter in succession, thinking to pour out their 
love in secret, only to be overheard by each of the men 
who has preceded him, all of them except Biron totally 
unaware of the presence of the others. Climactic, too, 
is the successive revelation by each man of his real 
condition. Doubtless for the special audience of the 
time the contest of all four, after Biron's confession, in 
praising the excellencies of their mistresses, closing as it 
does with a splendid poetic outburst of Biron, had cli- 
mactic value. There seems, however, to be but little 
left for the fifth act except such comedy as may be 
extracted from the presence of Don Armado's letter in 
the hand of the Princess. Consequently in Scene 1 
of Act V, just at the end of Act IV, we are promised 
possible fresh complications from a masquerading visit 
to the Princess and her ladies, and we take an entirely 
fresh start in the announcement that Holofernes and 
his friends are to act The Nine Worthies before the 
Princess and her attendants. The interests in the final 

[111] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

act have been, so to speak, thrust in from the outside 
rather than developed from elements of story started 
in the earlier acts. Yet the crowding incident, the 
variety, the surprise arising from the sad news Mercade 
announces, and from the curious postponing of the com- 
plete settlement of the love affairs, must have brought 
the audience to the graceful and lyric close in a state of 
great delight. That, however, does not dispose of the 
facts that technically the thin story has been developed 
very slowly till the fourth act ; that in Scenes 1 and 2 
of Act IV little skill is shown in holding the dramatic 
situation provided by the wrongly delivered letters; 
that the story halts badly toward the end of Act IV ; 
and that Act V is a patchwork rather than a presenta- 
tion of situations developing inevitably from the earlier 
parts of the story. The promised complication from 
the infatuation of Don Armado for Jaquenetta has 
provided nothing except the opportunity for the wrong 
delivery of the two letters. The only really strong 
situation resulting from this confusion of the letters is 
in Act IV, Scene 3, when it leads to the unmasking of 
Biron. Certainly in this play either Shakespeare did 
not desire much well-ordered story or else his power 
of plotting, both in the sense of finding a rich and prom- 
ising fable and moulding it into orderly and sequential 
dramatic narrative, was yet to be developed. 

When, too, one looks at the characterization it is 
again clear that either the special conditions under 
which the play was written made the dramatist feel 

[112] 



EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

only superficial characterization was desirable, or else 
he was not as yet able to present his people strongly. 
The comic figures, except Costard and Jaquenetta, owe 
much both in the content and the phrasing of their 
speech to John Lyly. That Shakespeare had read his 
plays or had followed them in the theatre till they had 
become so much a part of his intellectual equipment 
that he often transmuted their situations, lines, and 
very phrases into his own work, no one can for a moment 
deny who has read the plays of Lyly and the earlier 
work of Shakespeare, especially his comedy. Here, 
in Love's Labour's Lost, the chief comic figures show the 
same caricature, the same quibbling, and the same tor- 
turing of a phrase or an idea to the point of complete 
exhaustion of any comic possibility. Are the figures 
of the lords and ladies and the King and the Princess 
more than graceful puppets of the situation or mere 
utterers of the facile poetic imaginings of the dramatist ? 
To the women of the play love is a mere game, every 
move of which is known to them and which they play 
with easy grace and charm, sure of themselves and 
of their victory the moment they wish to seize it. Let 
these lovers protest as they may, here is none of the 
passion of love. It is the very playfulness of the whole 
treatment of love throughout four acts and a half which 
makes the grave note of service struck at the end of the 
play seem incongruous. 

The dialogue, however, reveals the secret of the play. 
Its relative proportions, as compared with incident, 
i [ 113 ] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

show clearly it was of prime importance. Acts I and 
II are simply talk. So, too, is Act III. The action in 
Act II is slight enough, merely the meeting of the King, 
the Princess, and their followers ; what gives it value is 
not what happens, but what is said. Indeed, as I have 
already pointed out, the action of the play is really 
centred in Scene 3 of Act IV and the last scene of Act V. 
The rest is clever or beautiful talk, or characterization 
that runs from something close to caricature, through 
the lovers chiefly significant as phrase-makers, to the 
few but sure and convincing strokes in Costard. That is, 
we have here a play on the model of John Lyly's works. 
In those plot was thin. So, too, was characterization, 
except in the comic figures, where it tended to run to 
caricature. Emphasis went to the graceful or the in- 
genious dialogue. In turn, Shakespeare, working as 
a disciple of John Lyly, — between 1585 and 1592, the 
most admired as well as the most literary of the 
workers in comedy, — in this play substitutes high- 
born men and women of the land of romance for the 
mythical figures of Lyly and presents somewhat cari- 
catured figures of the day in place of Lyly's exag- 
gerations of classic comic figures. Moreover, he re- 
leases the love story which Lyly had so rigorously re- 
pressed. That is what seems to me of prime significance 
in this play for any one studying the development of 
Shakespeare's technique. Though Love's Labour's Lost 
is technically weak, though it lacks originality in its 
elements of story, and though it is closely modelled on 

[114] 




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EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

Lyly's method in his court comedies, it is independent 
and contributive in that modern English comedy first 
sees the light in it. The play of romantic story in the 
rough already existed, as in Common Conditions; in 
a sense, the tragedy of love had already appeared in 
Kyd's Spanish Tragedy; a mere change in emphasis 
would turn almost any play of Lyly's into a comedy of 
love, but he preferred to make his work comedies of 
literary expression which rigidly repressed the human 
passion that at times almost eluded his watchfulness; 
in Robert Greene we have the story of wifely love in 
James IV, but the play is rather one of adventures 
than merely a love story ; and though in Friar Bacon 
and Friar Bungay Greene charmingly develops the story 
of Margaret of Fressingfield and her love for Lacy, it is 
merely an element in the whole plot. Here, in Love's 
Labour's Lost, we have our first specimen of a play in 
which the love story is of prime importance and all 
else is arranged merely to set it off or make it more 
appealing to the public. Before, however, this comedy 
of love can attain its full dramatic possibilities, Shake- 
speare must make great advances in his technique. 
It is certainly striking, however, that when this comedy 
of love first appears, it is written with a keen sense of 
literary effect and much poetic vigor. This is not the 
place for a discussion of high comedy ; that will come 
later ; but in Love's Labour's Lost Shakespeare has con- 
structed the footbridge by which one may cross from 
John Lyly's over-ingenious comedies of fantasy to his 

[115] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SKAKESPEARE 

own superb accomplishment in high comedy. It is 
not, however, so much a creation as an unmasking. 

In The Two Gentlemen of Verona, first printed in the 
folio of 1623, but mentioned by Meres in his Palladis 
Tamia in 1598, we have a play evidently written for 
the public stage. It is placed by the critics at various 
dates between 1591 and 1595, with a preference for 
1591-1593. What makes it likely that The Two 
Gentlemen of Verona is, in date of composition, closely 
related to Love's Labour's Lost, is that in it, too, the 
love story is both the chief interest and the thread 
which binds all the incidents together, and that, as 
we shall see in a moment, its advance beyond Love's 
Labour's Lost in technique is not great. The slight 
advance, however, and the decrease in the tendency 
to quibble and to overemphasize speech at the ex- 
pense of action show that The Two Gentlemen of 
Verona followed Love's Labour's Lost. 

The Two Gentlemen of Verona is indebted to the story 
of Felismena as told in the Diana Enamorada of Jorge de 
Montemayor. This book was not printed in English 
till 1598, but an English manuscript was in circula- 
tion from 1582. Possibly, too, Shakespeare knew and 
used a play acted before the Queen in 1584 entitled 
Felix and Philiomena. In the Diana Felismena is a 
maiden destined by Venus and Minerva to be unfortu- 
nate in love, but successful in war. She was wooed by 
a neighbor, Don Felix, and gave him her love after 
much affected scorn. His father discovered their love 

[116] 



EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

and sent Felix to Court to prevent the match. Thither 
Felismena followed him disguised as a page. On her 
first night in the city and before she has sought Felix 
out, she hears him passionately serenading some Court 
lady in the same street in which she lodges, and learns 
from her hostess that he is openly paying his addresses 
to this lady. Next day she sees him at Court, a splen- 
did figure in white and yellow, the colors of the lady 
Celia. Felismena maintains her disguise as the page 
Valerius, enters the service of Felix in order to be near 
him, and carries his tokens and messages to Celia with 
earnest pleadings of her own for the happiness of her 
false iover. Celia, still cold to Felix, waxes warm to 
Valerius, and when she cannot move him dies of unre- 
quited love. Then Felix disappears and people sup- 
pose him dead of grief. Felismena in despair becomes a 
shepherdess. After a time she chances upon a knight in 
the forest, hard pressed by three foes. She delivers him 
by her skill in archery and discovers that he is Don Felix. 
His old love for her returns, and she forgives the past. 
This outline of the original story shows that when 
Shakespeare wrote The Two Gentlemen of Verona he 
had waked to a fact constantly demonstrated by his 
later plays, namely, that the Elizabethan audience of 
the public theatres liked a crowded and complicated 
story. To meet this desire, Shakespeare provides not 
only the figures of the purely comic scenes, but also 
Valentine, Thurio, and Eglamour. Taking a hint from 
a portion of the story which he discards, he adds the 

[117] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

outlaw scenes. But though he provides more material 
for his proposed plot, his whole treatment of it proves 
that he is yet at the beginning of the acquirement of 
his technique. He feels strongly now the value of con- 
trast in drama, and therefore frankly opposes Valentine 
to Proteus, Silvia to Julia, as characters, and alternates 
his scenes of pure exposition or of emotion with scenes 
of comedy. Sometimes he even splits a scene midway, 
as in the first scene of Act I, to get this sort of contrast. 
He has discerned one of the permanent essentials of 
dramatic composition, contrast, but as yet his art is not 
sufficient to conceal his methods. 

It is, however, in his exposition and plotting that he 
is weakest. It takes this dramatist, who by 1596 at 
latest has gained a wonderful combination of swiftness 
and clearness in opening his plays, 1 two acts, including 
some ten scenes, to state the relations of Proteus, Valen- 
tine, Silvia, and Julia ; to bring the first three together 
at the Court ; to prepare us for the coming of the fourth ; 
and to introduce us to Launce and Speed. He would 
have done all this in at most three scenes a few years 
later : one, as now, showing the planning of Julia with 
Lucetta to leave Verona and go to the Court in search 
of Proteus ; one preceding scene for Launce and Speed ; 
and a longer scene, now Scene 4 of Act II, in Milan at 
the Duke's palace, where the coming of Proteus to the 
Court would bring out clearly his previous relations 
with Valentine and Julia, the love of Valentine for 

1 See the opening scene of Romeo and Juliet. 
[118] 



EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

Silvia, the sudden infatuation of Proteus for her, and 
the place of Thurio in the story. The movement in 
these two acts is still closely akin to the slow movement 
of Love's Labour's Lost. 

From the beginning of Act III the play moves with 
constantly increasing suspense for the spectator, but 
the use of this suspense proves that Shakespeare could 
not yet handle it perfectly. In Act III, Scene 1, Pro- 
teus basely betrays to the Duke the secret of Val- 
entine's love for Silvia. There follow the dramatic 
banishment of Valentine by the Duke, the perfidy of 
Proteus as he counsels Valentine to flee, and the amus- 
ing dialogue of Speed and Launce. Act III, then, con- 
tains at least one good dramatic situation, moves with 
relative swiftness, and shows especially well the sharp 
contrasting of serious and comic which Shakespeare 
delighted in at this time. Moreover, it urges us on to 
the other acts in order that we may know the outcome 
of the complications for Valentine and of the perfidy 
of Proteus. The second scene of this act shows us more 
perfidy on the part of Proteus when, agreeing to be 
false to Valentine, he seems to favor Sir Thurio's plan 
in regard to Silvia, but really schemes only for his own 
ends. It is, however, a transitional scene preparing 
us for complications to follow. In the fourth act the 
first scene simply shows us the taking of Valentine by 
the outlaws and their choice of him as captain. Scene 
2 is probably the most human and charming of the 
play. It is the serenade of Silvia by Thurio, Proteus, 

[119] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

and the musicians which the love-lorn Julia watches 
from her hiding-place. Even it, however, points for- 
ward to scenes seemingly sure to result because Julia 
now knows that Proteus is false to her. Scene 3, again 
transitional, shows us Silvia arranging with Eglamour 
to aid her escape from Milan in search of Valentine. 
Scene 4, after the opening between Launce and his dog, 
gives us the second strongly human scene of the play in 
the talk between Proteus and Julia, still disguised as a 
page, and her charming interview with Silvia, the latter 
a kind of preliminary sketch for the scene of Viola and 
Olivia in Twelfth Night. Yet this complication of the 
relations of Silvia, Julia, and Proteus reaches no settle- 
ment in the act and we turn to the fifth, sure that there, 
in a series of dramatic scenes or in one long scene, the 
very complicated relations of the four young people 
will be worked out. Scene 1, merely transitional, only 
shows us Eglamour and Silvia leaving Milan. In Scene 
2 the Duke, discovering the flight, starts with Proteus 
and Thurio in pursuit. The very brief third scene shows 
the capture of Silvia by the outlaws. Now but one 
scene is left in which to unravel all the complications 
and satisfy at last our long suspense. 

Could there be a more complete confession of dra- 
matic ineptitude than that last scene? It fails to do 
everything for which we have been looking. Valentine, 
after communing with himself in a way that foreshad- 
ows the banished Duke in As You Like It, withdraws 
as he sees strangers coming through the forest. Pro- 

[120] 



EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

teus, who is accompanied by the faithful Julia, still 
disguised as a page, has found Silvia and is trying to 
force his love upon her. Valentine, overhearing, bursts 
forth and denounces his friend. If Shakespeare did 
not wish to "hold" the scene of the avowal of his love 
by Proteus through letting Julia take some part in it, or 
by prolonging the play of emotion between Proteus and 
Silvia, he had, on the reappearance of Valentine, an 
opportunity for a strong scene in which the play and 
interplay of the feelings of the four characters might 
lead at last to a happy solution. Yet this is his weak 
handling of the situation : — 

Valentine. Now I dare not say 

I have one friend alive ; thou would 'st disprove me. 
Who should be trusted now, when one's right hand 
Is perjured to the bosom? Proteus, 
I am sorry I must never trust thee more, 
But count the world a stranger for thy sake. 
The private wound is deepest ; time most accursed, 
'Mongst all foes that friends should be the worst ! 

Proteus. My shame and guilt confounds me. 
Forgive me, Valentine : if hearty sorrow 
Be a sufficient ransom for an offence, 
I tender 't here : I do as truly suffer 
As e'er I did commit. 

Valentine. Then I am paid ; 

And once again I do receive thee honest 
Who by repentance is not satisfied, 
Is nor of heaven nor earth, for these are pleased. 
By penitence the Eternal wrath's appeased : 
And, that my love may appear plain and free, 
All that was mine in Silvia, I give thee. 

[121] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

It is hard enough to believe that Valentine would for- 
give so promptly, but that he would go as far as to offer 
to yield up Silvia is preposterous. That touch came 
simply to motivate the sudden swooning of Julia at 
the news. Only a little less absurd is the sudden 
swerve into rightmindedness of Proteus when Julia 
has revealed herself. After all these startling surprises, 
however, perhaps one is ready to agree to Julia's glad 
acceptance of the changeable affections of so worthless 
a person as Proteus. Is it not clear that in this scene 
the momentary effect, the start of surprise, mean far 
more to the dramatist than truth to life and probability? 
Having lured his audience on by writing scenes which 
constantly promised complicated action ahead, when 
the closing in of the afternoon at last drives him to bay, 
he gets out of his difficulties in the swiftest possible 
fashion, but with complete sacrifice of good dramatic 
art, the rich possibilities of his material, and truth to life. 
Here, then, is a play which shows in Julia and Launce, 
and in Scenes 2 and 4 of Act IV, that Shakespeare can 
now do far more in characterization than he had in 
Love's Labour's Lost. In it, too, his medium of ex- 
pression is gradually changing its mannered literary 
quality for genuine dramatic effectiveness. Yet the 
same play proves that, though he now recognizes the 
value of complicated plot and of creating suspense in 
the minds of his hearers, he can neither proportion nor 
develop firmly the story he has complicated nor properly 
satisfy the suspense which he has created. 

[122] 



EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

Does not the young Shakespeare's omission of Celia's 
fatal love for the disguised Felismena suggest that, 
feeling sure comedy must end pleasantly, he did not as 
yet see how to keep the amusing complication without 
letting it strike far too serious a note and end fatally ? 
A few years later, in Twelfth Night, Shakespeare finds 
in just this complication not only the cause for much 
amusement, but much poetry, and a delicate contrast 
of grave and gay. In The Two Gentlemen of Verona, 
as in Love's Labour's Lost, Shakespeare passes swiftly 
over the graver suggestions of his story. As yet he did 
not know how to throw his comedy into the finest 
relief by letting the serious cast slight shadows here 
and there. 

Does not this comparison of his accomplishment in 
these two plays with what he had done in Venus and 
Adonis and The Rape of Lucrece demonstrate that his 
superiority at first was poetic and literary rather than 
dramatic ; and that the distinction between dramatic 
ability, in the sense of projecting character by means of 
dialogue, and theatrical ability, the power of deriving 
for a special audience from particular material the 
largest amount of emotional result, was an art which 
must be learned even in Shakespeare's day? 

This technical analysis of these two plays gives results 
so sharply in contrast with those to be gained from 
a similar analysis of the two remaining plays, Titus 
Andronicus and The Comedy of Errors, that it is hard to 
understand how Shakespeare could have stepped swiftly 

[123] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

and surely from one group to the other with no inter- 
mediate dramatic experience. On technical grounds 
I am disposed to date Love's Labour's Lost and The Two 
Gentlemen of Verona as early as possible, that is, rather 
circa 1591 than circa 1593. 

Titus Andronicus has long been a great puzzle to stu- 
dents of Shakespeare, chiefly, I think, because they 
have exacted too high a standard from Shakespeare in 
the days of his apprenticeship and because they have 
often misunderstood his purpose in this particular play. 
Of course, its horror is undeniable, and this horror is 
for us so great that many parts of the play are revolting 
simply. Now, in the first place, the Elizabethans had 
stronger tastes and tougher nerves than ours. In the 
second place, they did not come to this play, as our 
critics too often have, as to a tragedy, but as to a melo- 
drama. Even the audiences which to-day are filled 
with delight over the horrors of our modern melodrama 
would find the same material unendurable were it lifted 
from the plane of melodrama to the level of tragedy; 
for the Elizabethan melodrama meant just what it 
means to us to-day, — "only a play." In the third 
place, Dr. H. de W. Fuller has shown that probably 
Titus Andronicus is merely a combination by Shake- 
speare, in 1594, of two old plays which had come into 
the possession of his company: Titus and Vespasian 
and Titus Andronicus. 1 One survives in a Dutch, the 

1 Publications of the Modern Language Association, Vol. XVI, 
No. 1, pp. 1-65. 

[124] 




jheech Ufa 



The First Fortune Theatre, 1600 
(See Kytaer's Map, p. 36.) 




The Second Fortune Theatre 
(Built in 1621) 



EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

other in a German play. If the English originals were 
only extant, we should have an admirable opportunity 
to watch Shakespeare moulding a play from the most 
popular scenes in two allied dramatic narratives. He 
must condense ten acts into five, and bring into relation 
with one group of persons a number of episodes which 
really happened to two sets of people. Here, certainly, 
was a very difficult problem in condensation, and if 
this play were to prove successful with his immediate 
audience, a difficult problem in adapting once popular 
old material to new conditions. There was the possi- 
bility in this material of two other difficult problems. 
If originally it was highly melodramatic, it might by 
convincing characterization and consistent motivation 
be lifted to the level of reality. It might, too, in the 
hands of a dramatist of poetic instincts and attain- 
ments, be given a fine literary setting. We shall see, 
on analyzing the play, that Shakespeare gave his chief 
attention to the first and the second possibility ; that 
he did much, even if somewhat spottily, for the fourth ; 
and that he did what the peculiar nature of his task 
permitted for the third. 

What must first strike any one who turns directly 
from the two plays just considered to Titus Androni- 
cus is the knowledge of essentials in theatrical narra- 
tive which the whole play, particularly the first act, 
shows. Here is no slow and colorless opening. 
Instead, a spectacle greets us at the start: "The 
tomb of the Andronici appearing; the Tribunes and 

[125] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

Senators aloft as in the Senate. Enter below Satur- 
ninus and his Followers, on one side; and Bassianus 
and his Followers on the other; with Drum and 
Colors." 

The two brief opening speeches take us at once into 
the contention between the brothers, Saturninus and 
Bassianus, for the crown of their father. Immediately 
there is surprise, when Marcus Andronicus appears aloft 
with the crown only to announce that the Senate has 
conferred it upon the victorious general, Titus Androni- 
cus, now returning to Rome. Somewhat surprising, 
too, is the readiness with which both Saturninus and 
Bassianus agree to submit their cause to the judgment 
of the people. Again spectacle is with us in the next 
scene, in the entry of Titus Andronicus, with his sol- 
diers and prisoners, bearing with him the bodies of his 
sons. On the opening speech of Titus, however, Shake- 
speare spends the best dramatic poetry of which he is 
capable at the moment. Compare its simplicity and 
dignity, its subtle characterizing quality with the verse 
of the two plays already considered. Instantly we pass 
from this speech to a strongly dramatic moment of 
large significance in the motivation of all that follows. 
The sons of Titus tear from the arms of the fiercely pro- 
testing Tamora her first-born son as a sacrifice to the 
manes of their departed brothers. As the sons of Titus 
return with bloody swords, the coffin is laid in the tomb, 
while the trumpet sounds and Titus chants his splendid 
requiem : — 

[126] 



EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

" In peace and honor rest you here, my sons ; 
Rome's readiest champions, repose you here in rest, 
Secure from worldly chances and mishaps ; 
Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells, 
Here grow no damned grudges, here are no storms, 
No noise but silence and eternal sleep. 
In peace and honor rest you here, my sons." 

As soon as Lavinia has welcomed her father Titus, 
Marcus Andronicus, Saturninus, and Bassianus enter 
to welcome the conqueror, and there is again surprise 
in the unwillingness of Titus to accept the crown. 
There is also suspense, as we wait to see for which of 
the candidates Titus will decide. Again there is a sur- 
prising turn in the narrative when Saturninus announces 
his sudden decision to choose Lavinia as his empress, 
for in the first scene we heard Bassianus admit that a 
reason for yielding to the decision of the Tribunes as 
to Titus was his love for Lavinia. How, then, will he 
take this sudden choice of his brother? Clearly, too, 
the action which would accompany the words of Satur- 
ninus as he speaks admiringly to Tamora would make 
an audience wonder as to the genuineness of his feeling 
for Lavinia and suspect complications ahead because 
of this admiration for the captured queen. Suddenly 
Bassianus seizes Lavinia and makes off with her. Now 
the dramatic incident comes thick and fast. While 
the Emperor courts Tamora in dumb show, the sons of 
Titus take sides for and against him as regards Bas- 
sianus ; the angry father strikes down his son Mutius, 
who bars his way ; and Saturninus announces his deter- 

c 127 a 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

mination to make Tamora his empress. Hard upon 
all this follows the strongly emotional scene in which the 
sons of Titus coax him to bury Mutius with his brothers. 
Saturninus returns with Tamora, and Bassianus with 
Lavinia. The dialogue makes it clear that feeling runs 
high between the brothers, and that Titus is at odds 
with both. Tamora at once assumes the right of her 
new position and, while she apparently labors for har- 
mony, lets us by her aside to Saturninus see that she is 
bent upon revenge for the death of her son. After all 
this crowding incident, this constant playing upon our 
emotions, the act ends in promises of friendship and 
harmony which we know from Tamora's aside will 
amount to nothing. Is not ample suspense to carry 
us over into the second act provided? Compare this 
first act in all its richness of incident and its climactic 
use of suspense with the thin plot and the slow develop- 
ment of Love's Labour's Lost and The Two Gentlemen 
of Verona. 

Surprise awaits us again in the opening speech by 
Aaron in Act II, for he tells us that as the long-time 
lover of Tamora he is completely bound to her inter- 
ests and is ready to do all manner of evil to her enemies. 
There follows the scene in which, by the advice of Aaron, 
Demetrius and Chiron change their rivalry for Lavinia 
to united scheming against her. Here is a new, if 
disagreeable, element of interest and suspense. Scene 
2 merely provides the coming of all the necessary fig- 
ures to the hunt. Scene 3, however, is so crowded 

[128] 



EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

with happenings, as is Scene 4, that they are hard to 
follow in the reading. First we have Aaron mysteri- 
ously hiding his gold and openly gloating over a vil- 
lany which he does not explain. Then comes the 
strong love scene of Tamora and Aaron in which they 
plot against Bassianus and Lavinia; Bassianus and 
Lavinia discover them and taunt them. Demetrius 
and Chiron, entering, are led by Tamora to believe that 
her life has been in danger and that she has been 
unforgivably insulted. Thereupon they stab Bassi- 
anus, throw him into the pit, and drag off Lavinia. 
Scene 4 shows us Aaron luring Martius and Quintus 
to the pit so that they may fall in and when found be 
held to have murdered Bassianus. Aaron brings Satur- 
ninus, too, that he may discover his dead brother with 
the trapped Martius and Quintus. Tamora, entering 
with Titus Andronicus and Lucius, completes the chain 
of evidence by producing the forged letter inculpating 
Martius and Quintus. The sons of Titus are led off to 
execution. Scene 5 simply emphasizes the horrors of 
the ravished Lavinia. Surely the complications hinted 
at in Act I have come thick and fast in Act II — in 
the death of Bassianus, the rape of Lavinia, and the 
arrest of the sons of Andronicus. Moreover, all that 
has resulted can directly or indirectly be traced to the 
refusal of Titus to listen to Tamora's prayer in her son's 
behalf. Yet here is no dead centre. Still we want 
to know whether the sons of Titus die, whether Lavinia 
is revenged, and what Titus does in behalf of his sons. 

[ 129 ] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

In Act III Shakespeare moves with somewhat less 
complication because he makes the act, as a whole, 
centre around Titus and brings out the effect of all the 
griefs that have come upon him. The dramatist looks 
at the possibilities of his material, however, more from 
the point of view of situation and crude emotion than 
of characterization. Even as Titus begs in vain that 
the Tribunes will spare his sons, Lucius comes saying 
that he has been banished for attempting to rescue 
his brothers and is going to the Goths. Now, when it 
seems as if nothing worse could happen, Marcus enters 
with the maimed Lavinia, and the cup of bitterness for 
Titus seems full. But there is more to come. Aaron 
enters to say that if Titus Andronicus will send the 
Emperor his hand, his sons will be sent to him alive. 
No wonder, when a messenger returns with the severed 
hand and with the heads of his sons, that Titus cries, 
"When will this fearful slumber have an end?" He 
rouses only to think of revenge. Even if climax be 
gained by crudely melodramatic circumstance, here is 
swift, climactic movement and intense emotion. Un- 
doubtedly the next scene, first printed in the first 
folio and perhaps not Shakespeare's, seems trivial and 
crude to-day, but when acted it would undoubtedly 
show a man, whose mind is breaking under the agony 
of his grief, and so would give a certain climax to 
the act. 

Scene 1 of Act IV belongs to Lavinia, for in it, with 
a staff in her mouth which she guides by the stumps of 

[130] 



EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

her arms, she writes in the sand the names of her be- 
trayers. Scene 2 brings the episode of the Blackamoor 
child of Aaron and his departure to place it in hiding 
among the Goths. In Scene 3 Titus is mad from grief. 
Scene 4 shows us the way in which the letters Titus 
fastened to the arrows he has been madly shoot- 
ing into the air, or has delivered to the clown as mes- 
senger, turn up to annoy Saturninus. It brings news, 
too, that Lucius, who fled to the Goths, is coming on 
Rome as their leader. There is much variety and much 
emotional appeal in these four scenes, though the act, 
as a whole, is not so unified as some of the preceding. 
It, however, points steadily ahead to complications in 
the fifth act. 

In the first scene of Act V, Aaron becomes the pris- 
oner of Lucius and reveals the responsibility for all 
the deviltry which has taken place. Scene 2 shows us 
the curious masquerading of Tamora and her sons 
before the house of Titus, doubtless far more interest- 
ing to an audience of the time than to-day, though 
even now the fact that the audience would know both 
Tamora and Titus are playing double would make it 
exciting. Its close in the sudden seizure and binding 
of Chiron and Demetrius and their murder by Titus 
and Lavinia would make it thrilling. In Scene 3 the 
swift killing of Lavinia, Tamora, Titus and Saturninus 
must have made a very climax of horror. Then the 
play slowly closes with one of those general summaries 
of the plot, here by Lucius and Marcus, of which the 

[131] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

Elizabethan audience in 1590-1595 seemed to be 
fond. 1 

I have gone into this rather detailed analysis because 
in no other way could I show the extremely large 
amount of incident, the constant use of suspense, the 
strong feeling for climax, and the relative unity of the 
plot which the play shows. Up to the end of the third 
act all moves not only swiftly, but compactly. There- 
after, it is as if the large amount of incident which the 
two old plays provided made it necessary for Shake- 
speare to use more scenes and to lose a little of his unity. 
But when one remembers that probably incidents origi- 
nally not at all connected have here been brought to- 
gether, is not this a somewhat remarkable piece of 
plotting for the man who could scarcely plot at all in 
Love's Labour's Lost and who was unable to fulfil the 
promise of the suspense he created in the Two Gentle- 
men of Verona? 

What makes the play repellent to us to-day is its 
combined extreme impossibility and its brutal horror. 
We must remember, however, that Shakespeare was not 
writing at all for posterity, but for a very immediate 
public which had shown the highest enthusiasm over the 
horrors of Kyd's Spanish Tragedy. In their past en- 
thusiasm for certain details and scenes of the two old 
plays he saw the strongest reason for reproducing them 
in his condensation and adaptation. Were he to make 
them less brutal than in the original, they would be less 
1 See comments on the Friar's speech at end of Romeo and Juliet, p. 209. 

[132] 



EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

effective. Nor, on the other hand, could he, even if 
he wished, go very far in characterization. To make 
these people real, would be merely to emphasize the 
improbability of their doings. The only road to suc- 
cess lay in treating the drama frankly as a drama of 
blood — what to-day we should call melodrama — 
and compressing ten acts into five with as much tech- 
nical skill in the creation of suspense and climax and 
in necessary motivation as he then possessed. Yet he 
did try for motivation whenever his crowding incident 
permitted it. Dr. Fuller has listed some ten points in 
which Shakespeare finds no original in the Dutch and 
the German survivals of the two old English plays. 
Putting aside the natural question whether the foreign 
plays are strict translations of their originals or adap- 
tations which may have omitted some details, the sig- 
nificant differences show that Shakespeare was endeav- 
oring better to motivate the story or to provide strong 
dramatic or spectacular effect. Apparently he added 
the preliminary dispute between Bassianus and Satur- 
ninus, which shows us in action the cause for their later 
bad feeling. The burial of the sons of Titus brought 
back from the war provides a spectacle and a strong 
emotional appeal. In naming Alarbus, the eldest born 
of Tamora, as the sacrifice, instead of merely proposing 
to sacrifice her lover Aaron, he makes the act seem more 
cruel to his audience and leaves Tamora a figure not 
wholly unsympathetic. The kidnapping of Lavinia 
offers a striking episode in itself, leads to the touching 

[133] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

death of Mutius, does much to aid the characterization 
of Bassianus, Titus, and Saturninus, and critically mo- 
tivates the hard feeling between the brothers, and to 
some extent accounts for the swift turning of the out- 
raged Saturninus to Tamora. 1 

In the main, however, he contented himself with en- 
riching the poetic expression where he could, and with 
getting what he had not yet gained before in the plays 
left to us — swift, climactic exposition of a story which 
grips the attention from start to finish. Viewed rightly, 
Titus Andronicus shows that by 1594 Shakespeare was 
a competent dramatist in one of the two rudimentary 
dramatic forms — melodrama. 

Like Titus Andronicus, The Comedy of Errors affords 
an interesting study in adaptation. In all probability 
it was originally acted on December 28, 1594, at Gray's 
Inn, when a u Comedy of Errors (like to Plautus his 
Mencechmus) " was given. Certainly the play was 
reproduced before King James in 1604. It may then, 
of course, have been somewhat made over, though the 
verse is not supposed to justify the conclusion that 
any elaborate making over took place. Usually it is 



1 The remaining differences are slight except for Scene 2 of Act III, 
which as I have already shown is a late addition and possibly not 
Shakespeare's: the hand of Titus, Marcus, or Lucius is demanded in- 
stead of that of Titus only; young Lucius carries presents from Titus 
to Chiron and Demetrius; the arrow-shooting occurs on the stage; 
the sentence imposed on Aaron differs a little, and the farewell 
speeches to the dead in the last act are formal additions. Publications 
of the Modern Language Association, Vol. XVI, No. 1, p. 41. 

[134] 



H6SPITa£aRIQRV>I Mafifaxm 8: lOH HIXHO.VOL 
J>Dxnvjj oiiui excelLt 111 fiibmrbio civitatts LOVD1K'. 
ports Aulhrjlu -i Circio proft>ectiw 




St. John's Gate 
(Office of the Master of the Eevels) 




The Theatre, 1576 

(See Ryther's Map, p. 36} 



EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

held that The Comedy of Errors is one of the earliest, if 
not the earliest, of Shakespeare's comedies ; but, as we 
shall see, the technical accomplishment in it shows that 
if written very early it must at least have been revised 
carefully at a time after the writing of Love's Labour's 
Lost and The Two Gentlemen of Verona, and not remote 
from the date of the adaptation, Titus Andronicus. 
The ultimate sources of the play are the Menechmi of 
Plautus and his Amphitruo; but whether Shakespeare 
worked from intermediary English versions is an open 
question. Certainly a non-extant Historie of Error, 
which may have been founded on Plautus, was acted 
by the Children of Paul's on New Year's night, 1576- 
1577. To this Shakespeare's play may possibly be 
indebted. Though no English translation of the 
Menechmi was published before that of W. W. in 
1595, the manuscript of this had been in circulation 
among the friends of the translator before it appeared 
in print, and Shakespeare may have seen it. Certainly 
he does not follow it closely. 

Three things are especially noteworthy in Shake- 
speare's adaptation: the far greater complication in 
story than in the Latin originals ; the skill with which 
the story is adapted to the tastes of the immediate 
public; and the ingenuity combined with sureness 
with which Shakespeare handles his many threads of 
plot. In the first place, the story of the Menechmi 
is at once complicated by creating a twin for the 
servant. In the second place, Scene 1 of Act III, 

[135] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

in which Antipholus of Ephesus and his servant are 
kept out of their house because the twin Antipholus 
and the twin Dromio are within, is added from the 
Amphitruo, from which may also be borrowed the idea 
of the twin servant. There is added, too, the love 
of Antipholus of Syracuse for Luciana. Finally, the 
father and mother, of whom we only hear in the Latin, 
appear at the beginning and end of the play as iEgeon 
and iEmilia. Here again, as in Titus Andronicus, we 
have evidence of a fact which will confront us often 
in our examination of Shakespeare's plays, namely, 
that the Elizabethan audience liked a play crowded 
to the utmost with incident and complication. From 
the comic side The Comedy of Errors is as strong proof 
of this as is Titus Andronicus on the tragic. Here, 
then, is proof of two things : that in farce-comedy, as 
well as in melodrama, Shakespeare could by 1594 pro- 
vide the complicated story which he certainly did not 
offer in his Love's Labour's Lost and apparently could 
not offer in The Two Gentlemen of Verona; and that 
consequently he now well understood one of the chief 
essentials of dramatic narrative for the audience of 
his time. 

Moreover, the addition of the love scenes between 
Antipholus of Syracuse and Luciana and of the scenes 
of iEgeon and iEmilia shows his sensitiveness to his 
audience and at the same time his growing literary 
skill. The whole development of the English drama 
between 1590 and 1600 proves how hearty and instant 

[136] 



EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

must have been the response of the public to the love 
element the moment it was strongly emphasized. As 
we have seen, Shakespeare instinctively, or it may be 
with good judgment, had developed in Love's La- 
bour's Lost and The Two Gentlemen of Verona what 
had been but an element in the plays of his immediate 
predecessors, the love story, into his central theme. 
Thereafter, he rarely fails to keep it before his public 
as main or as minor interest. Here he creates it out 
of whole cloth, evidently primarily because he felt 
sure of its additional appeal for his audience. In the 
second place, those scenes of iEgeon and iEmilia at 
the beginning and at the end of the play are in part, 
I believe, Shakespeare's response to the delight of the 
Elizabethans in strong contrasts. Always the delight 
of the English in blending in their drama the comic 
and the tragic has been a puzzle to the more civilized 
of the Continental nations, especially the French. 
Whatever its psychological cause, no careful reader of 
the Elizabethan drama will for a moment deny that 
the sharpest possible contrasts are common in it. 
There would seem to be a regard for the tastes of his 
public, too, in allowing the wife, Adriana, to have 
more prominence and more characterization in the 
adaptation than in the original and, above all, in the 
substitution of Luciana, as confidant, for the father of 
the wife in the Menechmi. Even for the Elizabethans 
the mere cheating of a wife in behalf of a courtesan 
was not as funny as it had been for the Latin audience, 

[137] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

and to them the sister would seem the much more 
natural confidant. 

Not only is Shakespeare keenly alive, in retelling 
his story, to the habits of mind and the prejudices of 
his audience, but he is master of his material. For 
instance, he finds no difficulty in handling the new 
people made necessary by his additions to the story 
of the Menechmi or his different emphasizing of it, 
namely, the Duke Solinus, Balthazar, Angelo, Luciana, 
iEgeon, iEmilia, and above all the second Dromio. 
It is common to decry the characterization of the play 
as slight, but it must be remembered that in all dra- 
matic composition the amount of characterization we 
have a right to expect from a dramatist depends upon 
the aim he has in view. His is no indefinite stretch of 
canvas. A play must not take more than two and 
a half or three hours even in the days of Shakespeare ; 
consequently if he crowds it with incident, the char- 
acterization must necessarily be faint or must be given 
in swift and masterly strokes. But do we ask in a 
farce of incident for any strong characterization? 
Are we not, and ought we not, to be satisfied with such 
characterization as makes the situations for the 
moment plausible? Study the scenes of this play 
carefully and I believe you will see there is a dramatic 
Tightness of feeling in the amount of characterization 
given each which we have not noted before. In the 
scenes of farcical situation the characterization is 
either subordinated to the development of the com- 

[138] 



EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

plications, though it remains adequate, or it comes in 
swift revealing strokes. On the other hand, in the 
sisterly talk of Luciana and Adriana, and in the love 
making of Antipholus of Syracuse, characterization 
comes properly into greater prominence. Let any one 
who doubts the greater sureness of Shakespeare here 
in characterization contrast his treatment of Sir 
Eglamour or Thurio in The Two Gentlemen of Verona 
with his development of Angelo in the first scene of 
Act IV of this play. Again his great gain in control 
of his material appears in his sure-footed movement as 
he threads his way through the confusion worse con- 
founded of the last scene of Act IV and in his develop- 
ment of the last act. All that he was unable to do in 
closing The Two Gentlemen of Verona he is competent 
for in this play. Making us feel every minute that the 
conclusion must be upon us, he draws all the people 
necessary to his denouement naturally upon the stage, 
meantime piling up amusing complications until we 
are nearly ready to cry with the Duke himself, "I 
think you are all mated or stark mad." Then, and 
only then, he lets, the abbess enter with Antipholus of 
Syracuse and Dromio his servant, and all the confusion 
is cleared away. 

Shakespeare shows in this play, too, a marked sense 
of dramatic economy, which is one of the sure signs of 
the experienced playwright. The appearance of ^Egeon 
at the beginning of the play not only provides an ele- 
ment of surprise when the hearer finds this grave open- 

[139] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

ing turning suddenly into a roaring farce-comedy, but 
it is a device for badly needed exposition which gets 
rid of a chorus and also does away with the necessarily 
less dramatic recounting of the story by Menechmus 
Sosicles in the original. Moreover, the opening scene 
of iEgeon makes possible the neat adjustment of the 
story in the last scene. We see something of the 
same economy in the way in which the figure of Luci- 
ana, substituted for the wife's father, is made in her 
love story to provide a new thread of interest. Indeed, 
so wise and so firm is the handling of the material in 
this adaptation that one would almost be inclined to 
say a large part of its merit must date from the per- 
formance at Court in 1604, when Shakespeare had 
acquired his technique, were it not that the plays we 
are to consider next, Romeo and Juliet and The Mer- 
chant of Venicej give proof that shortly before their 
composition such work as this must have been pos- 
sible for Shakespeare. 

Usually The Comedy of Errors is called comedy ; some- 
times, frankly, farce. But is it exclusively either? Is 
it not rather a farce-comedy ? As I am to consider in 
a later chapter Shakespeare's treatment of the forms 
of comedy, I wish here only to point out that in The 
Comedy of Errors farce-comedy of literary value first 
appears in our drama. Is it not striking that even in 
these experimental plays the young dramatist is well on 
his way toward high comedy, and in adaptation has 
mastered farce-comedy, a form heretofore unknown? 

[140] 



EARLY EXPERIMENTATION IN PLOTTING 

It is evidence of the fine normality of Shakespeare's 
development that his highest technical attainment 
before 1595 came in adaptations of preceding plays — 
in Titus Andronicus and The Comedy of Errors. Of 
course, it is easier to adapt for an audience of your 
own time a play or plays of a preceding decade, or 
even of a different age and language, than it is to create 
your story and build your play therefrom or even to 
transmute the narrative of a novel into successful 
theatrical narrative. But as adapter and as worker 
in melodrama and farce-comedy, Shakespeare had 
demonstrated by 1594 knowledge of his audience, a 
growing sense of technique, and the power to make 
that technique so mould a story as to conform with 
the prejudices and tastes of his public. Note that 
he gains his technique first where the heaviest demands 
in characterization are not made upon him, in melo- 
drama and farce-comedy. He has yet to learn, on 
the one hand, how to metamorphose the stilted 
stories of his day into vivid portrayal of human con- 
duct and how to make historic scenes live again. 
Inasmuch as he tried his hand very early at the chronicle 
history plays, let us next consider his development in 
that so-called form. 



[141] 



CHAPTER IV 

THE CHRONICLE PLAYS 

TEN of Shakespeare's thirty-seven plays are chronicle 
histories in the strict sense of the word. Three more, 
Macbeth, Lear, and Cymbeline, are drawn from English 
legendary history. Three others, Julius Ccesar, Ham- 
let, and Anthony and Cleopatra, are founded on the his- 
tory of two other nations. That is, roughly speaking, 
one-quarter of Shakespeare's work is chronicle play, 
and nearly one-half of it has its source in the histories. 
The chronicle play is, however, so unstable, so transi- 
tional, that it cannot be defined by its differentia as 
a form, but is best distinguished from farce, melodrama, 
comedy, and tragedy by its material. Indeed, one 
can hardly distinguish it more than to say it was, in 
strict Elizabethan usage, a play which drew its material 
from national history. It mattered not whether this 
material was veracious or legendary, whether it dealt 
with Richard III or Lear, but, in the strict use of the 
term, if it did not deal with British history it was not 
a genuine chronicle play. Of course, as James the 
Fourth of Robert Greene shows, a play founded on 
an Italian romance 1 could easily be foisted on this none 

1 James the Fourth is founded on the story of Astatio and Arrenopia; 
cf. Giraldi Cinthio's Hecatommithi. 

[142] 



THE CHRONICLE PLAYS 

too discriminating public as a genuine chronicle play, 
merely by giving some of the figures well-known his- 
torical Scotch names. 

In form, too, as well as in substance, nothing could 
be dramatically freer than the chronicle play of the 
sixteenth century. Its form was free because it simply 
applied to lay history the methods of dramatic narra- 
tion already practised by the miracle plays for some 
centuries with secular material. The chronicle play, 
before an audience just as curious and at first little 
better informed historically than the people who had 
watched the miracle plays, recounted what had hap- 
pened in the reign of a particular king, what incidents 
led to his accession, what episodes marked his fall or 
death. Particularly in the earlier stages of the miracle 
play, events as compared with characterization or dia- 
logue, were of prime importance. If each of the great 
cycles may be called one great play, every division was, 
as it were, an act in a drama of twenty-five to forty 
acts. For two reasons at least, each special scene was 
sufficient unto itself. First, it was represented by 
a different company, one of the gilds, which naturally 
was interested in its play only as a unit and cared not 
at all to link its performance with what followed. 
Secondly, the prime duty of the writer was to reproduce 
the historical situation and to emphasize its moral 
purport, rather than to aim at perfect characterization 
or dialogue attractive in itself. Recall that in 1590 the 
miracle play still lingered in out-of-the-way parts of 

[. 143 ] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

England ; that it had fallen into a decline only in the 
first quarter of the century ; and it becomes clear that 
the early chronicle play could hardly avoid treating 
lay history even as the miracle play had presented 
Biblical history. Five acts of Henry VI are like five 
successive gild plays in their loose, discursive develop- 
ment, and their emphasis on situation as contrasted 
with character and dialogue. They are not unlike 
them in that, though they do not emphasize the moral 
significance of the material, they stress, by genealogies 
and expositions such as Shakespeare's of the Salic 
Law, education in history. 

It is striking that before 1585-1590 the chronicle 
play had no real prominence. Though there were a 
few, such as Bale's Kynge Johan, the famous Gorboduc, 
and The Misfortunes of Arthur, the first was half 
morality, and the other two, like most of their fellows, 
were strongly influenced by Seneca's plays, and were 
at best, therefore, hybrids. The genuine English 
chronicle play — that is, English history treated in the 
method, or perhaps better with the absence of method, 
of the old miracle plays — rose to prominence with that 
sudden upswelling of English patriotism which burst 
forth after the death of Mary Queen of Scots and the 
defeat of the Armada gave promise of a time of peace 
from internal dissension and outer attack in which 
England could wax glorious as she had never been 
before. It is suggestive, as the special historian of 
this so-called form, Professor Schelling, has pointed 

[144] 



THE CHRONICLE PLAYS 

out, 1 that this growth of the chronicle play accompanied 
the rapid multiplying between 1590 and 1600 of poems 
on historical subjects, and was itself doubtless due in 
part to the rapid publication between 1550 and 1590 
of a succession of books dealing with English history. 
About a dozen of these plays belonging before 1590 
exist, and even this number includes three plays in 
Latin, and two strongly influenced by Seneca, as well 
as two which are but pseudo-historical. That is, 
there are extant but three undoubted chronicle plays 
written before 1590. Yet the next decade leaves us 
some eighty out of a very much larger production. 
Indeed, I think it may be said that between 1588 and 
1598 the chronicle play was the most popular kind of 
play in England. The pages of Henslowe's Diary 
certainly show that all the leading dramatists, at one 
time or another within that decade, tried their hands 
at this kind of work — Greene, Peele, Marlowe, Dekker, 
Jonson, Shakespeare. It was the child of the universal 
instinct for dramatic expression quickened by the 
youthful and vigorous spirit of nationalism, and it was 
trained in the freest of all schools, that of the only 
national drama England then had, — the miracle plays 
and moralities. Yet English through and through 
as it was, it gave way, about 1600, to the comedy of 
manners and to tragedy. And when both of those 
went out of vogue about 1608, in spite of scattered plays, 
like Henry VIII and Ford's Perkin Warbeck, it never 

1 The English Chronicle Play, F. E. Schelling, ch. II. 
l [ 145 ] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

regained its old popularity. Why ? It is easy enough 
to say that this was because, after the accession of 
James I, the just foundations of national pride rapidly 
crumbled, sapped by the base influences of his court; 
but that is not adequate. From its very essence, the 
chronicle play is transitional ; not even the genius of 
a Shakespeare could have prevented its developing, 
when perfected, into some one of the three forms, — 
the comedy of manners, the play of romantic story, or 
tragedy. 

I shall exclude Henry VIII from my consideration of 
the development of the chronicle play with Shakespeare, 
because, as it stands, it is a play on which not only 
Shakespeare, but also John Fletcher worked ; because 
we are not sure when the form we possess was written ; 
and because we do not know whether there was genuine 
collaboration or merely a making over by Fletcher after 
Shakespeare's death. Indeed, in spite of its purple 
patches of poetry and its dramatic moments, it is at 
best to be classed with the earlier chronicle plays, 
for, as Dr. Hertzberg has not unfairly said, it is "a 
chronicle history with three and a half catastrophes, 
varied by a marriage and a coronation pageant, end- 
ing abruptly in the baptism of a child." Enough evi- 
dence for my purposes can certainly be derived from the 
three parts of Henry VI, from Richard III, Richard II, 
King John, Henry V, and the two parts of Henry IV. 
Tracing rapidly the dramatic accomplishment in these 
plays, I hope to show that genius itself, even when as 

[146] 



THE CHRONICLE PLAYS 

ready to learn and to submit to basic principles of 
dramatic composition as Shakespeare shows himself 
in The Comedy of Errors and Titus Andronicus, could 
not make the chronicle play a form by itself. Instead, 
it must be forced by the very nature of dramatic com- 
position and the eternal interests of the public in drama 
to aid an inevitable evolution rather than to create or 
even to establish a separate form. Let us recall at 
the outset the axiom that the aim of drama is to give 
rise within the space of no more than five acts to the 
greatest possible amount of emotional effect, be it 
laughter, tears, or the many intermediate states. 
What we shall watch is the gradual recognition by 
Shakespeare of the ways in which he may get the 
largest emotional returns in telling his public of days 
of the past in terms of their own experience, and 
the consequent resolution of the chronicle history 
into comedy of manners, tragedy, and even mere 
romance. 

I do not need to go into the complicated question 
of the relative authorship of the three parts of Henry 
VI or their exact relation to the two plays which the 
second and third parts much resemble : The Famous 
Contention between the Two Houses of York and Lan- 
caster and The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York. 1 
It is enough here that the three parts must belong 

1 See especially On the Authorship of the Second and Third Parts of 
Henry VI and their originals, Jane Lee (New Shaks. So. Transactions, 
1875-76). 

[147] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

between 1589 and 1592 ; that Shakespeare was prob- 
ably making over old material in all three parts; 
and that he may have had Christopher Marlowe as 
a collaborator in the second and third parts. No 
doubt some readers have wondered why of all the plays 
I have in mind only Richard III is often seen, and why 
it is that the others, when rarely performed, are 
somehow less satisfactory than when read, — a curious 
result for plays which surely no one would denominate 
closet drama. All this results, I believe, because 
certain great principles of dramatic composition which 
spring from the relation of the public to this imitative 
art — the drama — are not observed in this group 
of plays. Not even genius can neglect these few 
underlying principles and hope that his play will have 
lasting popularity, or, often, even temporary success, 
except with some coterie his own leadership has formed. 
The first principle of all is that a play must have unity, 
not because the rhetorics call for that in composition, 
but because the great public does not permanently 
care for story-telling which leaves no clear, final im- 
pression. It may be helpful to remember that these 
historical plays are the Elizabethan prototype of 
our plays of the Civil War. We, too, not long since, 
were satisfied with a succession of ununified scenes 
so long as they thrilled us with camp-fire scenes, the 
marching and counter-marching of mimic forces, or 
the horrors of Libby prison. But those plays we are 
considering have gone into the oblivion where even 

[148] 



THE CHRONICLE PLAYS 

these Elizabethan plays would have dropped if char- 
acterization of distinct power and much rich if ir- 
regularly appearing poetry had not been present in 
these nine chronicle histories. The fact is, the three 
parts of Henry VI, Richard II, and even to some 
extent King John, fail as plays in two fundamental 
respects. 

In the first place, in spite of characterization and 
poetry, occasional or frequent, these plays leave us 
in the theatre far less clear, and therefore less satisfied, 
than does Richard III, in which every scene is but one 
more light thrown on the facets of Richard's character. 
Say, if you like, that it is a very simple form of unity 
to keep one figure almost constantly before your au- 
dience and to show him not as a mixture of good and 
evil, but as unqualifiedly malevolent. Add, if you will, 
in derogation, that in Richard III Shakespeare was 
merely imitating the method of Christopher Marlowe 
in Tamburlaine. The fact remains, nevertheless, that 
Richard III responds to a permanent instinct of the 
public: an instinct that delights in a central figure 
or at least a group of figures which grip its attention 
at the start and which hold that attention to the end. 
Recall the curious effect of an evening of one-act 
plays. Some years ago the late Felix Morris tried the 
experiment — usually to half-empty houses. He told 
the writer that the audience when interested in one 
of his creations clearly disliked to lose sight of it after 
one act, and evidently found it difficult to readjust 

[149] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

itself repeatedly to new characters and new interests. 
I believe that to be psychologically sound and some- 
thing that could have been foreseen. Is the devotion 
of the American public to a "star" anything but an- 
other manifestation of the same instinct? If story 
fail them, if there be no character in the play 
which really interests them, at least they can watch 
how the "star" does his work! Now in every one of 
the plays I have in mind, except Richard III and Henry 
V, there is not the unification of material which carries 
on a reader or hearer with increasing interest from 
stage to stage, leaving him clear at the end as to the 
meaning of the whole play. Nor is there in any other 
play than these two a unification so complete, even if 
crude, by means of a central figure. 

Lest there be any doubt as to this, let us run over the 
other plays rapidly. What is the real subject of the first 
part of Henry VI f Count Talbot and his brave deeds ? 
He dies in the first scene of the fourth act. Is it the 
wars with France ? If so, the play should end with the 
last scene of Act IV of the Folio. Is it the plottings of 
the barons ? That is the only interest which holds out 
to the end of the play ; but if so, it certainly has not 
compelled attention throughout. Indeed, what avails 
it if in the mind of the author a particular interest in 
his play is of prime importance when the public selects 
another which ends before the close of the play? The 
contemporary testimony of Thomas Nash shows us 
that to the public the Talbot scenes were the cause 

( 150] 



THE CHRONICLE PLAYS 

for enthusiasm. 1 It is true that the Second Part, 
which treats throughout of internal dissensions in the 
kingdom and the rise to power of York and his sons, 
splits up the interest less, and that in Part Three there 
is an approach toward unity in the rise of Richard 
and the passing of the crown to the party of York ; but 
in each part we are hurried from one scene to another 
without any central figure on which to fasten our atten- 
tion, without anything which, in the ordinary sense of 
the word, can be called plot, — if we mean by that 
word a related set of incidents with distinctly a begin- 
ning, a middle, and an end. Part I is incomplete 
without Part II ; Part II without Part III ; and even 
Part III without Richard III. That is, we have a 
great tetralogy of twenty acts in which no one of the 
quarters, except possibly the last, is conceived as a 
unit. Rather what should have been reduced by care- 
ful selective compression to two plays of five acts — 
one dealing with Henry and one with Richard — has 
been diffusively narrated. Even if some promising 
characterization and much poetry mark the narration, 
we have in Henry VI blocks of history rather than 
beads strung by a central dominating character or a 
unifying idea. 

1 Piers Penniless (entered August 8, 1592) contains the following: 
" How it would have joyed brave Talbot, the terror of the French, to 
think that after he had lain two hundred years in his tomb, he should 
triumph again on the stage, and have his bones embalmed again with 
the tears of ten thousand spectators." For a discussion of the signifi- 
cance of the reference at the moment, see Life of Shakespeare, F. G. 
Fleay, pp. 259-260. 

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DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

A second dramatic flaw in Henry VI, King John, 
and Richard II is best illustrated by the third play. 
There are many who much admire what they feel to 
be the reserve and the artistic restraint of Richard II, 
and with those who talk of it as poetry or as narrative 
there can be no quarrel ; but as drama the play has a 
fatal fault. Notice how little the actors care for this 
play. It is easy enough to say scoffingly that they 
see no star part in it, but there is no one star part in 
Julius Ccesar, yet the actors seem reasonably fond of 
that play. The truth is, here in Richard II is a play 
without a hero. Richard is constantly represented in 
an unfavorable light — as weak, dilatory, and selfish. 
The character with elements of popularity, who might 
easily have been made the central figure of the play, is 
Bolingbroke, yet, only lightly sketched in as compared 
with Richard, he is evidently deliberately subordinated 
to the latter. Once more we face a curious situation : 
like the child, an audience, loving story-telling for its 
own sake, craves some compelling central figure whom 
it can follow sympathetically or even with fascinated 
abhorrence. The least experienced story-teller for 
children knows that mere incident with no central 
figure can never compete with Jack the Giant-killer 
or the Ugly Duckling. Nor does the childish listener, 
no matter what his years, care for a weakling as the 
central figure. When he finds a weakling in that posi- 
tion, he falls back on either the incidents of the story 
itself or on some secondary person in the play. Iago 

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and Macbeth compel attention quite as much as Othello 
or Lear, but Hamlet and Coriolanus as central figures 
do not command the unwavering attention of the un- 
critical. How much has the great public cared for 
attempts like Mr. G. B. Shaw's to interest them in the 
temperament of such a figure as the hero of Arms and 
the Man f On the other hand, to fall back on a sec- 
ondary character is to shift interest midway, some- 
thing which Marlowe, with his sure theatrical instinct, 
worked hard to prevent in Edward II. To-day, all 
these warring factions about Richard have for us no 
special interest in themselves. Worst of all, from the 
side of the actor, the great cause of disaster in the play 
— the vacillation and dilatoriness of Richard — are 
merely talked of or illustrated in their results rather 
than strikingly presented in action. That is, the actor's 
instinct tells him there is no good acting part in the 
play either in the sense that he can carry the sympathy 
of the house with him in ever-increasing attention from 
start to finish or that he can hold it fascinated, even with 
disgust or horror, as in Richard III. What tells in 
Richard II to-day is what relates it to Love's Labour's 
Lost, the fertility of its poetic imagination, and its 
verse. Listen to Richard giving up his crown in these 
beautiful but exceedingly self-conscious lines: — 

" Now is this golden crown like a deep well ; 
It owes two buckets, filling one another : 
The emptier ever dancing in the air, 
The other down, unseen, and full of water : 

[153] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

That bucket down, and full of tears am I, 
Drinking my grief, whilst you mount up on high." 

Remembering that a few years later Shakespeare had 
learned that in the great crises in our lives a gesture, 
a glance, a monosyllable, are far more probable than 
any long speech, however fine, one is disposed to quote 
James Shirley's words, "Sir, your phrase has too much 
landscape. " 

In King John, though Shakespeare gains decidedly 
in dramatic skill, some of the old weaknesses persist. 
Again we face in John a weakling who can only slightly 
command our sympathy and whose death is far less 
touching than it would be had he in the earlier scenes 
been of larger mould. There can be no question that 
Falconbridge is the strength of the play as a play. 
As any reader know^s who has compared Shakespeare's 
John with the earlier play in two parts, from which he 
skilfully condensed it, The Troublesome Raigne of King 
John, and with the historical material in Holinshed, 1 
Falconbridge is Shakespeare's creation from vague and 
indequate suggestions. But it is not merely the courage, 
resourcefulness, and wit of Falconbridge, — in a word his 
characterization — which make him memorable : it 
is he who passes straight through the play, carrying 
our sympathies and affection with him and giving to 
it a kind of unity. But he cannot give it that essen- 

1 For a probable source of the dispute of the Bastard and his 
brother in The Troublesome Raigne of King John, see Halle's account 
of the reign of Henry VI, Shakspere's Holinshed, W. Boswell-Stone, 

pp. 48-50. 

[154 J 




M 



THE CHRONICLE PLAYS 

tial unity which would come from a compelling cen- 
tral figure indispensable to all the important scenes, 
without whom the play could have no being. 

Particularly noticeable is the development of the 
comic in this play. Part I of Henry VI showed only 
touches, and those coarse ; Part III lacked it ; and in 
Part II Cade's followers provided comic relief. Richard 
II lacks it, and in Richard III its place is taken by the 
sardonic irony of the king himself. In Henry V, as it 
stands, the comic alternates with the graver scenes. 
Thus far, then, the really comic has come almost en- 
tirely, if present at all, from people not closely in- 
volved with the main plot. In King John it is Falcon- 
bridge himself, an important person in nearly all the 
main scenes, who brings the comic relief. This recog- 
nition that the comic is desirable for contrast and that 
it may relax tense emotion till a hearer may again be 
wrought upon with effect, Shakespeare, in part, owes 
the author of The Troublesome Raigne; but a few 
years later in The Merchant of Venice he will show 
us in the trial scene that the comic and the tragic 
depend not upon the person who is looked at, but 
the sympathies of the person who looks at him. 

Growing maturity is seen also in King John in the 
scene of Arthur and Hubert, by the subordination of 
mere physical horror to working upon us through 
sympathies with the lad himself. There are, too, re- 
peated instances which show increasing sureness of 
theatrical knowledge. In the original of the Hubert- 

[155] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

Arthur scene, the murderers enter shortly after Hubert 
begins to speak with the lad and seize upon the boy. 
Shakespeare holds them back till just as Hubert is 
beginning to yield. Their coming fills an audience with 
dread lest it strengthen Hubert's weakening purpose. 
Our eager watching of Hubert relaxes only when he 
orders out the murderers, for then we know that he 
will yield. In the first chapter I pointed out that the 
earlier dramatists seem not to have understood how 
to make an entrance or an exit dramatically effective. 
Here Shakespeare proves that he knows how to make 
both significant for their scene. In this play, too, 
Shakespeare shows marked alertness to motivate the 
details of his story; for example, when Philip breaks 
his bond with John. In the original Philip breaks it 
promptly and with no conscience; in Shakespeare 
he yields only after appeals to him from all his friends 
and followers. This care for motivation in characters 
other than the title part is noteworthy because unusual 
in the preceding work both of Shakespeare and his con- 
temporaries. In brief, King John, except in not pro- 
viding for the title part a person who holds us to the 
end thoroughly sympathetic or fascinated by his evil 
doing, and in the momentary abeyance of rich poetic 
expression, shows dramatic gain by Shakespeare. 

Even when one comes to the two parts of Henry IV, 
which one can praise unreservedly for humor, humanity, 
and general characterization, it is not difficult to see 
why the play is rarely acted to-day. Every one admits 

[156] 



THE CHRONICLE PLAYS 

that the Second Part is episodic; that the scenes of 
the barons are largely repetitive of Part I, and that the 
warring of the king with his barons lacks the interest 
which the fascinating Hotspur gave similar scenes in 
the First Part. Delightful, too, as are the Falstaff 
scenes, they mingle midway in Part II with the almost 
equally delightful scenes of Shallow and Slender. 
That is, even in the Falstaff scenes of this Part — and 
it is also true of Part I — we have a group of perfect 
character scenes appearing as episodes rather than as 
a story. Moreover, he who does not care for Falstaff, 
if such there be, will find in the strictly historical por- 
tion neither central figure nor absorbing story to inter- 
est him. Perhaps that explains why the play to-day 
reads better than it acts : in reading, it is characteriza- 
tion which tells most ; but on the stage, it is a story in 
action. Even in Part I, though it is Hotspur who 
carries our sympathies with him, no matter how much 
the dramatist himself may have favored the prince, 
we are doomed to see our hero fall sometime ere the 
close of the play. Evidently, then, the moment you 
consider the relation of an audience to story-telling 
upon the stage, you see easily why it is that of all these 
plays Richard III — even if its motivation is by no means 
equal to some of the others, and the characters, except 
Richard, are little more than types in an essentially 
melodramatic presentation of history — holds its public 
to-day by its characterizing action for a central figure. 
Perhaps, too, you see why Henry V, with that fasci- 

[157] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

nating portrait presented in memorable verse, holds 
us better in reading than in acting, depending as it does 
not so much on action as on characterization in poetry. 
In other words, even in the best of these chronicle plays, 
it is not plot which tells, as was the case with Titus 
Andronicus and The Comedy of Errors, but episode, and 
such unity as there is comes through such figures as 
Falconbridge, Hotspur, Henry V, and Richard III. 
The art of developing a well-unified plot out of historical 
material had not, in this form, been attained by Shake- 
speare even four years later than he had acquired it in 
melodrama and farce. The reason for this striking 
difference bears on the point I made in opening this 
chapter as to the impossibility of treating the chronicle 
play as a form by itself. 

In the first place, it cannot be shown that this episodic 
nature of the so-called form resulted because the Eliza- 
bethan public remained permanently indifferent to a 
well-unified recounting of history. At first they were 
undoubtedly such avid hearers of dramatic narration 
of their historic past that, for the moment, if the drama- 
tist made past scenes and figures five again, they were 
so absorbed and grateful that they took what came 
even as it was offered. Yet after 1598 the chronicle 
play gave way to high corned} 7 , to the comedy of man- 
ners, and to tragedy. Would this have happened if 
mere reproduction of the past could permanently delight 
the Elizabethan public? Why, too, since they re- 
sponded to the increasing unity and technique in such 

[158] 



THE CHRONICLE PLAYS 

plays as Titus Andronicus, The Comedy of Errors, The 
Merchant of Venice, and Romeo and Juliet, should they 
have made an exception with this one kind of material, 
— from national history ? Does it not look as if some 
different theory of composition for historical and non- 
historical subjects existed in the mind of the dramatist ? 
Again, it may be said that the material, since it 
was largely a matter of common knowledge, hampered 
the dramatist through his sense of fact, and that the 
technique of Shakespeare before 1600 was not equal 
to surmounting the difficulties resulting. This is at 
best a half truth. I have shown that, even before 
Shakespeare wrote, some of the chief essentials of 
dramatic composition were well understood. In Titus 
and The Comedy of Errors we see that by 1594 he knew 
how to weld the work of another, complicated by new 
elements, into an admirably constructed and empha- 
sized play. Moreover, even in these very chronicle 
plays there are in small matters signs of conscious 
technique. More than once one notes a striking but 
somewhat puzzling action at the opening of a play, 
not fully explained for some time thereafter. For 
example, in Part I of Henry VI, the genealogy which 
accounts for all the plotting and fighting of the preced- 
ing scenes is given by the dying Mortimer just at the 
end of Act II. To-day we should be likely to state 
or to hint in the first act the causes for the scenes sur- 
rounding this exposition or immediately succeeding 
it. Such combination of exposition with action is, 

[159] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

however, difficult, and these men of 1590-1595 had the 
sense to see that a good exciting incident, the causes 
of which the audience did not quite understand, made 
it willing and eager to listen later to exposition which 
would be boresome if stated at the outset and which 
the dramatists had not art enough as yet to present 
in any other way than baldly. One finds also in these 
earlier plays a curious use of suspense. Apparently 
Shakespeare outgrew it, but it is evident in plays of 
Ben Jonson as late as 1610. We create suspense to-day 
by showing, as Shakespeare did later, the feud between 
the two houses of the Montagues and Capulets, and 
letting an audience know that the son of one house has 
fallen in love with the daughter of the other. That 
seems to us enough to set the imagination working in 
pleased anticipation of complications to follow. Not so 
some of these earlier dramatists. They break off the 
ends of their acts sharply in the middle of something 
that should immediately follow, as, for instance, at the 
end of the three parts of Henry VI ; and sometimes at 
the end of a scene they introduce one or two new figures 
merely to start an interest which promptly goes over 
into the next. The reason for this lay in the nature 
of their stage : one scene was separated from another, not 
by our long waits, but merely by the opening of the 
curtains about the inner stage or the entrance from 
behind the arras of other persons. Yett both of these 
devices constitute technique. Moreover, the technique 
is conscious, for the devices could result only from care- 

[160] 



THE CHRONICLE PLAYS 

ful watching of the effect on audiences of plays presented. 
Yet it is an ephemeral technique, for with more experi- 
ence and a truer understanding of the art of the drama 
came other and permanently successful methods of 
gaining the same results. For us, however, it is enough 
at the moment to show that even in the chronicle play 
Shakespeare was working not blindly, but with an 
increasing sense of methods and laws underlying his 
art of playwright. Moreover, detailed comparison of 
Richard III, The True Tragedy of Richard, Duke of 
York, and Heywood's Edward IV with one another and 
their sources, proves that Shakespeare successfully 
used the historical sources more fully than either of 
the other authors. Why, then, the contrast in tech- 
nique between his chronicle plays and his other work 
of 1593-1598? 

For two reasons: first, the aim of the Elizabethan 
dramatists, notably Shakespeare, in writing the chron- 
icle play was different from their purpose in other kinds 
of work ; and, second, their sense of historical fact kept 
them from handling this material with the perfect 
freedom which marked their use of all other sources. 
Slowly, since the days of the miracle plays, the English 
dramatists, known and unknown, had been gaining the 
art of telling stories on the stage. By the advent of 
Shakespeare, as the work of Greene and Kyd proves, 
especially in James the Fourth and The Spanish Tragedy, 
they had practically mastered the essentials of the art. 
But with the sudden rise into great popularity of the 
m [ 161 ] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

chronicle play between 1585 and 1598, their purpose 
became by well-chosen illustrative scenes to exhibit the 
historical figures doing the deeds for which they were 
famous and uttering their equally famous words. 
Not story but character became central as the chronicle 
play developed. Nor was the character, as was the 
case with the plays developed from fiction or from 
observation of life about the author, chiefly the result 
of his imagination working either on a few hints in 
his sources or from close observation of life about him. 
Instead, from the rather bald accounts in the histories, 
the dramatist must re-create the historical figures, but 
without his usual freedom in his use of incident and 
dialogue from his sources. He was not to tell a story 
about Henry VI ; instead, he was to represent as many 
as possible of the famous events in the reign of that 
king. He might tamper with chronology; he could 
much develop minor figures only suggested in the his- 
tories; he might add new figures; but the great per- 
sonages of history he must represent in the main as 
history shows them. All this meant, in the first place, 
a much more difficult problem of characterization be- 
cause of the dramatist's restricting sense of fact: he 
was called on to paint, not the type, but an individual. 
In the second place, this presented particular difficulty 
just where the Elizabethan was weakest: in devising 
a fable and constructing a plot around it. If all the 
illustrative incident used by these dramatists in the 
chronicle plays were to be wrought into as well unified 

[162] 



THE CHRONICLE PLAYS 

a play as The Comedy of Errors or Titus Andronicus, 
these men must first discern in all the widely separated 
and dissimilar circumstances the thread of fable, story, 
which could be woven into a plot. 

To watch the development technically of Shakespeare 
in these chronicle plays is to find constant proof of the 
truth of the foregoing statements. At the outset, his 
scenes depend for effect almost wholly on the contained 
incident. The figures speak the necessary words, but 
the phrases characterize only in the broadest fashion. 
There is no evidence that the young dramatist saw 
the full emotional possibilities of his situation. He 
rushes through the scene, giving all the striking mo- 
ments contained in it, but without transition from 
part to part, and losing opportunity after opportunity 
for clash and contrast of character. By 1596-1597 
Shakespeare had become a master of the art of creat- 
ing and sustaining dramatic suspense. How he misses 
the evident and admirable opportunities for it in what 
follows ! We suspect strongly that the Talbot scenes 
in Henry VI are Shakespeare's. Unfortunately the 
source of Act III, Sc. 2, between the French Countess 
and Talbot, is not known, so that it is impossible to 
tell whether the dramatist at all developed upon his 
original, but a reading of this scene from Henry 
VI should make clear to any one that its author was 
lacking in all the respects just named. Only his 
poetic power breaks free from the restraining force 
of his memory of the details of his scene. 

[163 1 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 
Auvergne. Court of the Castle. 
Enter the Countess and her Porter. 

Countess. Porter, remember what I gave in charge ; 

And, when you have done so, bring the keys to me. 

Porter. Madam, I will. [Exit, 

Count. The plot is laid : if all things fall out right, 

I shall as famous be by this exploit, 

As Scythian Thomyris by Cyrus' death. 

Great is the rumor of this dreadful knight, 

And his achievements of no less account : 

Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears, 

To give their censure of these rare reports. 

Enter Messenger and Talbot. 

Messenger. Madam, according as your ladyship desir'd 
By message crav'd, so is lord Talbot come. 

Count. And he is welcome. What ! is this the man? 

Mess. Madam, it is. 

Count. Is this the scourge of France ? 

Is this the Talbot, so much fear'd abroad, 
That with his name the mothers still their babes ? 
I see report is fabulous and false : 
I thought I should have seen some Hercules, 
A second Hector for his grim aspect, 
And large proportion of his strong-knit limbs. 
Alas ! this is a child, a silly dwarf : 
It cannot be, this weak and writhled shrimp 
Should strike such terror to his enemies. 

Talbot. Madam, I have been bold to trouble you; 
But, since your ladyship is not at leisure, 
111 sort some other time to visit you. 

Count. What means he now ? — Go ask him, whither he goes. 

Mess. Stay, my lord Talbot ; for my lady craves 
To know the cause of your abrupt departure. 

[164] 




The Rose Theatre? 
(Prom Hollar's Map of London, 1640) 







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The Swan Theatre 
(From Visscher's Map of London, 1616) 



THE CHRONICLE PLAYS 

Tal. Marry, for that she's in a wrong belief, 
I go to certify her Talbot's here. 

Re-enter Porter, with keys. 

Count. If thou be he, then art thou prisoner. 

Tal. Prisoner ! to whom ? 

Count. To me, blood-thirsty lord ; 

And for that cause I train 'd thee to my house. 
Long time thy shadow hath been thrall to me, 
For in my gallery thy picture hangs ; 
But now the substance shall endure the like, 
And I will chain these legs and arms of thine, 
That hast by tyranny these many years, 
Wasted our country, slain our citizens, 
And sent our sons and husbands captivate. 

Tal. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Count. Laughest thou, wretch? thy mirth shall turn to moan. 

Tal. I laugh to see your ladyship so fond. 
To think that you have aught but Talbot's shadow, 
Whereon to practise your severity. 

Count. Why, art not thou the man ? 

Tal. I am indeed. 

Count. Then have I substance too. 

Tal. No, no, I am but shadow of myself : 
You are deceiv'd, my substance is not here; 
For what you see, is but the smallest part 
And least proportion of humanity. 
I tell you, madam, were the whole frame here, 
It is of such a spacious lofty pitch, 
Your roof were not sufficient to contain it. 

Count. This is a riddling merchant for the nonce ; 
He will be here, and yet he is not here : 
How can these contrarieties agree ? 

Tal. That will I show you presently. 

He winds his Horn. Drums strike up; a Peal of Ordnance, The 

Gates being forced, enter Soldiers. 

[165] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

How say you, madam ? are you now persuaded, 
That Talbot is but shadow of himself ? 
These are his substance, sinews, arms, and strength, 
With which he yoketh your rebellious necks, 
Razeth your cities, and subverts your towns, 
And in a moment makes them desolate. 

Count. Victorious Talbot, pardon my abuse : 
I find, thou art no less than fame hath bruited, 
And more than may be gather 'd by thy shape 
Let my presumption not provoke thy wrath ; 
For I am sorry, that with reverence 
I did not entertain thee as thou art. 

Tal. Be not dismay 'd, fair lady; nor misconstrue 
The mind of Talbot, as you did mistake 
The outward composition of his body. 
What you have done hath not offended me : 
No other satisfaction do I crave, 
But only, with your patience, that we may 
Taste of your wine, and see what cates you have ; 
For soldiers' stomachs always serve them well. 

Count. With all my heart ; and think me honored 
To feast so great a warrior in my house. [Exeunt. 

Contrast with the dramatic ineptitude of this the 
scene in the last act of Richard II, when the young 
Aumerle, returning home to his father, the Duke of 
York, is found by the latter to be really involved in 
a conspiracy against Bolingbroke. Here is the original 
of the scene in Holinshed and also Shakespeare's 
development of it. 

"For this earle of Rutland departing before from 
Westminster to see his father the duke of York, as he 
sat at dinner, had his counterpane of the indenture of 
the confederacie [made at Oxford] in his bosome. 

[166] 



THE CHRONICLE PLAYS 

" The father, espieing it, would needs see what it was : 
and, though the sonne humblie denied to show it, the 
father, being more earnest to see it, by force broke it 
out of his bosome : and percieuing the contents therof , 
in a great rage caused his horses to be saddled out of 
hand, and spitefullie reproouing his sonne of treason, 
for whome he was become suretie and mainpernour 
for his good abearing in open parlement, he incon- 
tinentlie mounted on horseback to ride towards Wind- 
sore to the king to declare vnto him the malicious intent 
of his complices. " * In Shakespeare's version the Duke 
and the Duchess have been talking of the triumphal 
entry of Bolingbroke into London and the contemp- 
tuous feeling of the people for Richard, when the Duch- 
ess cries : — 

Duchess. Here comes my son Aumerle. 

York. Aumerle that was; 

But that is lost for being Richard's friend, 
And, madam, you must call him Rutland now : 
I am in parliament pledge for his truth 
And lasting fealty to the new-made king. 

Enter Aumerle. 

Duch. Welcome, my son : who are the violets now 
That strew the green lap of the new-come spring ? 

Aumerle. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not : 
God knows I had as lief be none as one. 

York. Well, bear you well in this new spring of time, 
Lest you be cropp'd before you come to prime. 
What news from Oxford? hold those justs and triumphs? 

1 R. Holinshed, Chronicles, III. 514. 
[167] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

Aum. For aught I know, my lord, they do. 

York. You will be there, I know. 

Aum. If God prevent it not, I purpose so. 

York. What seal is that that hangs without thy bosom ? 
Yea, look'st thou pale, sir ? let me see the writing. 

Aum. My lord, 'tis nothing. 

York. No matter, then, who sees it : 

I will be satisfied ; let me see the writing. 

Aum. I do beseech your grace to pardon me : 
It is a matter of small consequence, 
Which for some reasons I would not have seen. 

York. Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see. 
I fear, I fear, — 

Duch. What should you fear ? It is 

Nothing but some bond that he's enter 'd into 
For gay apparel 'gainst the triumph-day. 

York. Bound to himself ! what doth he with a bond 
That he is bound to ? Wife, thou art a fool. — 
Boy, let me see the writing. 

Aum. Beseech you, pardon me ; I may not show it. 

York. I will be satisfied : let me see't, I say. 

[Snatches id, and reads. 
Treason ! foul treason ! — Villain ! traitor ! slave ! 

Duch. What's the matter, my lord ? 

York. Ho ! who's within there ? ho ! 

Enter a Servant. 

Saddle my horse. — 
God for his mercy, what treachery is here ! 

Duch. Why, what is't, my lord ? 

York. Give me my boots, I say ; saddle my horse. — 
Now, by mine honor, by my life, my troth, [Exit Servant, 

I will appeach the villain. 

Duch. What's the matter? 

York. Peace, foolish woman. 

Duch. I will not peace. — What is the matter, son? 

1168] 



THE CHRONICLE PLAYS 

Aum. Good mother, be content ; it is no more 
Than my poor life must answer. 

Duch. Thy life answer ! 

York Bring me my boots : — I will unto the king. 

Re-enter Servant with boots. 

Duch. Strike him, Aumerle. — Poor boy, thou art amaz'd. — 

[To the Servant] Hence, villain ! never more come in my sight. 

York. Give me my boots, I say. [Exit Servant. 

Duch. Why, York, what wilt thou do ? 
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own ? 
Have we more sons ? or are we like to have ? 
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time ? 
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age, 
And rob me of a happy mother's name ? 
Is he not like thee ? is he not thine own ? 

York. Thou fond mad woman, 
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy ? 
A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament, 
And interchangeably set down their hands, 
To kill the king at Oxford. 

Duch. He shall be none ; 

We'll keep him here : then what is that to him ? 

York. Away, fond woman ! were he twenty times 
My son, I would appeach him. 

Duch. Hadst thou groan 'd for him 

As I have done, thou'dst be more pitiful. 
But now I know thy mind ; thou dost suspect 
That I have been disloyal to thy bed, 
And that he is a bastard, not thy son : 
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind : 
He is as like thee as a man may be, 
Not like to me, nor any of my kin, 
And yet I love him. 

York. Make way, unruly woman ! [Exit. 

Duch. After, Aumerle ! mount thee upon his horse ; 

[169] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

Spur post, and get before him to the king, 

And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee. 

I'll not be long behind ; though I be old, 

I doubt not but to ride as fast as York, 

And never will I rise up from the ground 

Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away, begone ! [Exeunt. 

There can be no doubt of the dramatic power of 
that, for it portrays character by means of dialogue. 
It shows, too, the way in which training an imagination 
originally sympathetic may develop almost intuitive 
powers. Shakespeare metamorphoses the dry lines 
of the history into human documents, quickens them 
into human figures. The scene shows, also, theatrical 
as contrasted with mere dramatic skill. Note the sure 
feeling for the emotional possibilities of the two inci- 
dents, the discovery of the indenture and the departure, 
which leads Shakespeare to "hold" them, as the tech- 
nical phrase runs, by looking at them through the eyes 
and feelings of each participator. It shows, too, in 
the swift contrasting of the doting mother and the 
outraged, sternly loyal father. It is specially evident 
in the climax gained by having York so long hold back 
the exact nature of what he has read in the indenture, 
and in the frenzied cry of the Duchess to Aumerle as 
the servant enters to receive the orders of the infuriated 
Duke: " Strike him, Aumerle!" But in this scene, 
as elsewhere in these chronicle plays, when Shakespeare 
is at his best, he is absorbed in the emotional content 
of the scene rather than in portraying some figure so 

[170] 



THE CHRONICLE PLAYS 

well known that his sense of fact steadily restricts him. 
Nearly always one finds him at his best when freest 
from the shackles of historical fact. This extract 
from Richard II proves, then, that by 1592 or 1593 
Shakespeare had gained the power, within a scene, of 
getting from his material that " peculiar emotional 
effect which is the chief end of the theatre. " That 
is, within the scene, even in the historical play, he was 
theatrically competent. The lines just quoted show 
also what marks even these early plays in contrast with 
similar work of his contemporaries, — Shakespeare's 
marvellous understanding of the inmost feelings, not 
merely of a single figure but of a group. 

Yet Richard II shares with the three parts of Henry 
VI and Richard III a decidedly undesirable character- 
istic, in that in them action is merely represented 
rather than explained in the representation. Many, 
many things happen, but the actions are related one to 
another rather because historically they did happen 
in that order or because they happen to the same per- 
son or group of persons, than casually. Recall the 
wooing of Lady Anne by Richard III. Is that, even 
when acted, ever wholly convincing? I can never see 
it without recalling these words: "What distinguishes 
melodrama is that it stops at nothing to attain its 
effects. " It is undoubtedly true that in the group, 
namely, King John, the revision of Henry V made in 
1598, and the two parts of Henry IV, there is a per- 
sistent effort to motivate action ; and that is just why 

[171] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

all those plays are more convincing than the earlier 
group. But with the exception of the two parts of 
Henry IV, Shakespeare is ever ready to let his charac- 
ters explain themselves in long speeches rather than 
by significant and connotative action. Recall the 
opening soliloquy of Richard III : — 

" Now is the winter of our discontent 
Made glorious summer by this sun of York." 

Recall Richard II resigning his crown to Bolingbroke, 
or the many splendid declamatory speeches of Henry 
V. Shakespeare begins in Henry VI with mere action, 
unrelated and discursive ; moves to illustrative action, 
too often subordinated to speech, in Richard II and 
Henry V ; ' to illustrative action that is not sufficiently 
motivated in Richard III ; and then through King 
John and the two parts of Henry IV to a point where 
his motivation makes his characters at the moment 
thoroughly human, but is not searching enough to 
make us understand, instead of the single scene itself, 
the tragedy of their lives. Action resulting from 
character he grasps first in Richard III, but action 
resulting from an initial event of far-reaching signifi- 
cance he seems to understand less well. That there 
are such things as laws of human conduct whose pup- 
pets human beings are, apparently in these chronicle 
histories he either does not even suspect or does not 

1 1 group these plays together in time because I believe that Henry 
V, though revised in 1598, was originally written before 1595. 

[172] 



THE CHRONICLE PLAYS 

care to illustrate. The fact is, these chronicle plays 
before King John may easily be grouped as follows: 
strictly experimental, three parts of Henry VI; ex- 
perimental with literary feeling dominant, Richard II 
and Henry V ; experimental with a growing sense of 
theatrical effectiveness, Richard III. I have already 
spoken of the resemblance between Love's Labour's 
Lost and Richard II, in the fact that each sacrifices 
the dramatic moment to ephemeral and essentially 
false standards of literary expression. 

Surely there is no need to dwell on the poetic rich- 
ness of Henry V. It is true also that Henry V de- 
claims in character when he declaims, but, nevertheless, 
as a play this is a pageant and a character study rather 
than a story in which Henry V is the central figure or 
a play in which Henry reveals himself by significant 
and deftly correlated action. Does not all this analysis 
make clear Shakespeare's weakness up to 1595-1596, 
the date of King John? He could characterize per- 
fectly within the scene ; he could develop from the 
merest historical suggestion characters which fitted 
perfectly into the chief historical incidents of the play, 
he could even subordinate his literary instinct to his 
dramatic, but he could not bind, or did not care to 
bind, all this crowding incident together except through 
some one central figure like Richard III or Henry V; 
nor did he apparently as yet discern behind the his- 
torical events the great laws and forces for which these 
kings, queens, and nobles were but the puppets. That 

[173] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

is, till King John he is, after all, producing from his- 
torical fact only a kind of sublimated melodrama. 
Even King John and the two parts of Henry IV bear 
out what has just been said, for though both show 
great gain in general characterization, in technical 
skill, and even in the creation of figures so real that they 
pass unchallenged side by side with the historical, 
neither play is as well unified as The Comedy of Errors 
or Titus Andronicus. 

This singular contrast in unifying power resulted, 
as I have said, from two causes. To Shakespeare and 
his contemporaries of 1590-1600, except Marlowe, the 
chronicle play probably seemed as distinctly a form 
as comedy or tragedy. As yet all the forms as forms 
were little understood. Comedy meant dramatic 
story-telling for a pleasant ending; tragedy was story- 
telling with a grim conclusion. The developed chron- 
icle play meant not story-telling, but characterization 
by means of illustrative scenes. As a rule, the charac- 
terization was not general, but confined to the central 
figure or a few of the dramatis persona? . As has just been 
stated, it was in the pervasive quality of good character- 
ization that Shakespeare began to pass beyond his fel- 
lows. The other dramatists, except Marlowe, in their 
historical plays were at best satisfied with such unity as 
they could get from a central figure passing through most 
of the scenes. Marlowe, especially in his Edward 77, 
had begun to lay the foundations of sound dramatic 
technique, but his untimely death checked its develop- 

[174] 




The Second Globe Theatre 

(Enlarged from the Visscher Map of 1616. For the original Globe see Frontispiece.) 




The Bear Garden and Hope Theatre 

(Enlarged from the Yisscher Map of 1616) 



THE CHRONICLE PLAYS 

ment. The second cause for the contrast in Shake- 
speare's unifying power is his restricting sense of 
historical fact, which kept him from seeing that till 
he could stand apart from the historical material and 
regard it with the same freedom with which he used 
other sources, he could not produce from it plays of so 
high an order as his own from non-historical material. 
When we turn to closer study of the two parts of 
Henry IV, we may see, I think, why it is that the chron- 
icle play could not be a form by itself. Look for a 
moment at the proportion in that play between the 
FalstafT material, which, let us remember, is purely 
fictitious, and the genuinely historical material. In 
the first act only the second scene deals with Falstaff ; 
in Act II, three out of four scenes treat him, and the 
fourth scene is a decidedly imaginative development 
of the historical material. In Act III only the third 
scene belongs to FalstafT, but fully two-thirds of the 
first scene, while dealing with historical figures, is the 
result of Shakespeare's imagination. In Act IV only 
the second scene goes to Falstaff, but two of the others 
are treated very imaginatively by Shakespeare, and 
the third is a mere transitional scene. Naturally, 
now that we have reached the climax of the play, his- 
torical incident must dominate, and in Act V the Fal- 
stafT story is merely a part of three of the four scenes. 
When, however, one notices that six out of fourteen 
scenes go to FalstafT and that fully half of the others are 
almost wholly the product of Shakespeare's imagination, 

[175] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

one sees why it is that critics have declared that in 
these plays historical fiction is born. Here the imag- 
ination of the dramatist revivifies historical facts both 
by making human and comprehensible details of scenes 
known at most to his audience only in outline and by 
adding figures who had no real historical existence. 
Moreover, when one turns to the Second Part one finds 
that the chronicle play, forced by the applause of a 
public delighted beyond measure by the Falstaff scenes 
of the First Part, is fairly turning into the comedy of 
manners. This part, like the first, gives in the first 
act only one scene to FalstafT, but freely develops his- 
torical material in the other two scenes. In the second 
act, it gives three scenes out of four, the last a very 
long one, to Falstaff. Act III divides its two scenes 
between the two interests, the historical and the fic- 
titious. Thus far the proportions have been very 
much what they were in the First Part, but in the re- 
maining two acts the emphasis is very different. All 
four scenes of the next act are given up to the historical 
material. In the fifth act, instead of putting the em- 
phasis on this, as was the case in Part I, Shakespeare 
gave the first, the third, and the fourth scenes to Fal- 
staff, Shallow, and their fellows, and only the second 
and the last to history. Indeed, the Second Part is 
memorable hardly at all for the history it revivifies, 
but rather for its comedy of manners. The public 
interest actually forced the fictitious, in this sequel, 
to the most prominent position, — the closing part of 

[176] 



THE CHRONICLE PLAYS 

the play. That is, by 1598 we find comedy of manners 
emerging from these plays based on lay history just 
as centuries before comedy of manners had emerged 
from plays based on Biblical history. In each case the 
result came through an emphasis given the material 
because of the eager interest of the public in seeing 
figures like unto themselves moving amusingly amidst 
historical scenes. Clearly, then, the chronicle play 
might develop into the comedy of manners, and even 
give way to it, as ultimately the miracle play gave way 
to the interlude and its presentation of social condi- 
tions of the moment. 

A faint foreshadowing of another form into which 
the chronicle play might turn appears in Part I of 
Henry IV, namely, the play of romantic story. Next 
to Falstaff is it not Hotspur whom we remember from 
that play, and remembering him do we not recall, 
quite as much as his scene with his colleagues in resist- 
ing King Henry, his parting with his wife and his ad- 
mirable fooling with her in the scene of the music and 
dancing which follows that of the portents ? In other 
words, we follow his fortunes not so much as a histor- 
ical figure, but rather as the man and the lover. If, 
then, the love element in these plays were allowed 
to come into prominence, it would rapidly transform 
them into romance. Always this is waiting in history 
just behind or beside the facts these contemporaries 
of Shakespeare chose to treat, ready to spring forth 
at the call of the mind discerning enough to see it, 
* [ 177 ] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

and competent to give unity to the material if so sum- 
moned forth. The studied indifference of John Lyly 
to human emotion with difficulty prevents the natu- 
ral feeling of some of the scenes of his Alexander and 
Campaspe from sweeping aside the eccentricities of 
his style. Greene, in James the Fourth, recognized the 
romantic in history when he successfully palmed off on 
his public as a genuine chronicle play the pure romance 
of Giraldi Cinthio. Thomas Hey wood midway in this 
decade in his Edward IV makes a sturdy step toward 
releasing this form from the restrictions of historical 
fact and turning it into romantic story. At the end of 
the next century the dramatists would, in Otway and 
Rowe, for instance, see little else in history but its ro- 
mance. Witness especially Venice Preserved and Jane 
Shore. 

But why not a development of the chronicle play 
into a form by itself? We have just seen what its 
material becomes when manners or story in it are 
specially emphasized. Look now at what happens if 
we continue the emphasis of the contemporaries of 
Shakespeare, — on character. First we find scattered 
uncorrelated incident in Henry VI, for instance, then 
correlation of it by one central figure, as in Richard III ; 
next, we see an attempt to characterize more figures 
than the central one and to portray the results of a 
ruling passion, as in Edward II, or of a vacillating 
nature, as in Richard II. But the dramatist felt what 
his audience must have felt, that somehow this last 

[178] 



THE CHRONICLE PLAYS 

development is for acting purposes less effective than 
unity by means of a central figure. What could he 
do ? He could study character till he came to see that 
behind the individual lie greater forces of which the 
individual is but the sport or servant. Then he must 
recognize that any of these reigns he has been consider- 
ing as merely illustrative of the weakness or the strength, 
the courage or the vacillation of a particular king, was 
but the history of a conflict within the individual, 
between the individual and his environment, or of the 
futile beating by the individual against the irresistible 
progress of some great force at work long before he took 
the reins of government. If the dramatist sees these 
facts, tragedy will be born, for the discovery will cor- 
relate his illustrative tragic incidents. 

Is it not clear, then, that by 1596, in the two parts of 
Henry IV, Shakespeare had gone as far as he could go 
and not have that so-called form change under his very 
fingers into something quite different ? It might be the 
play of mere story or what we commonly call the ro- 
mantic play ; it might be comedy of manners, and even 
that needs some story to bind its incidents together ; or 
it could be tragedy, and that demands story most of 
all. That is, for development into its fullest possibili- 
ties as dramatic material the chronicle play constantly 
called on the playwrights to mould from its myriad 
details some central story. But this is just the task 
which the Elizabethan playwright shirked as far as 
he possibly could. He much preferred re-presentation 

[ 179 ] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

to creation of story, even in modified form. It is true 
that Shakespeare by 1594 showed a technical skill 
outside of the chronicle plays which has made us won- 
der why he did not do better even with those ; but the 
work we praise, in The Comedy of Errors and Titus 
Andronicus, is adaptation, not drama in which he had 
largely to create his story from scattered incident or 
suggestion. Since, in the chronicle play, Shakespeare 
faced this distasteful exaction, and since he could not 
meet it successfully, even if willing to make the attempt, 
unless he could come to regard the historical material 
as just as flexible, just as freely to be tampered with 
as any other source, is it surprising that the years from 
1595-1600 in his production are given to steadily 
finer and stronger adaptation for his public of existing 
plays and stories rather than to drawing from the his- 
torical material the story elements it certainly con- 
tained ? Is it not a striking fact, too, as bearing on 
what I have said of his restraining sense of fact, that 
Shakespeare's tragedies in every case deal either with 
non-English material or with mythical portions of 
English history? 

In the next chapter we shall examine a group of 
plays which show Shakespeare completely awake to 
the importance of story in play-writing and ac- 
quiring the art of moulding story from manifold 
details. 



[180] 





Three Unreliable Views of the Globe Theatre 
(For comments see List of Illustrations.) 



CHAPTER V 

THE ART OF PLOTTING MASTERED 

IN this chapter I shall consider a play of fantasy, 
A Midsummer Night' s Dream; & romance that is usu- 
ally called a tragedy, Romeo and Juliet; and a third 
romantic story in which the grave and the gay are ad- 
justed with a niceness which shows the hand of a mas- 
ter, The Merchant of Venice. In all of these plays 
what is instantly noteworthy on the technical side is 
the amount of incident, and that the incident is so 
related that one unhesitatingly denominates it plot. 
But what does "plot" mean? Has not all the earlier 
analysis proved that it is simply design, "the means 
by which the artist, out of a chaos of characters, actions, 
passions, evolves order"? 1 He may have only the 
purpose to tell within the limited space of five acts 
a simple story, but even that story must have a be- 
ginning and an end, related incident, sequence, and 
climax — in a word, an orderly telling. Or it may be 
that the dramatist, before he writes, threads his way 
amid an almost infinite number of incidents, guided in 
his selecting by some central purpose. That central 

1 W. H. Fleming, Shakespeare's Plots, p. 15. 
[181] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

purpose may be to illustrate a many-sided character 
by selecting, not simply scenes which show this 
or that aspect of it, but the scenes which, first, 
represent it dramatically, and, secondly, represent it in 
the shortest space of time. Or the guide of a drama- 
tist in selection and arrangement may be a central 
idea which each of his scenes or groups of scenes is 
to enforce. Or it may be that the special conditions 
under which the play is to be given — a Christmas 
merrymaking, a wedding, festivities to welcome some 
foreign prince — determine the selection and the ad- 
justment of the material. It is the first purpose, story- 
telling, which underlies such a play as Titus Andronicus; 
the second purpose, characterization, marks Richard III 
and Henry V ; it is the third, a central idea, which uni- 
fies Hamlet; and the fourth method, selection deter- 
mined by special conditions of presentation, is exem- 
plified in A Midsummer Night's Dream. 

In any case there must in good plotting be some cen- 
tral purpose to act as a kind of magnet to draw to itself 
unerringly and swiftly the filaments of illustrative in- 
cident. That is, plot rests primarily on selection of 
incident, which in turn is determined by the dramatic 
purpose of the author. Yet when these incidents have 
been selected, there is as yet only a primary sort of 
plot — what may be denominated fable or story as 
contrasted with real plot. If this distinction did not 
hold, we should not call the chronicle histories poorly 
plotted. The dramatic artist who is capable of real 

[182] 



THE ART OF PLOTTING MASTERED 

design sees instantly that some of his incidents should 
fill only brief, transitional scenes; that others should 
be developed till they have yielded all their capacity 
of serious or comic results ; and that between, treated 
with just the amount of detail the dramatist's artistic 
purpose in the whole play requires, should lie the bulk 
of the incident. It is when the incidents selected for 
some definite purpose, whether mere story-telling, 
study of character, or tragic import, have been thus 
proportioned and moulded till they tell a unified story 
with perfect clearness and with just the emphasis on 
each part which the artistic purpose of the author re- 
quires that we have in the strict sense of the word plot. 
Clearly, then, — and this is the first point I wish to 
stress, — plot is neither simply a matter of selection 
nor of sequential incident. It is as well a matter of 
proportion and emphasis. All these characteristics 
can exist in perfection only when a dramatic author 
knows just what he wishes to do, has all the resources 
of the technique of his time at his disposal, and con- 
sequently, as I have already tried to show, understands 
perfectly the relation of the public of that time to story- 
telling on the stage. Plot is, then, fable or story so 
proportioned and emphasized as to produce in the num- 
ber of acts chosen the greatest possible amount of emo- 
tional effect. In the three plays under consideration all 
the named requisites of good plotting are fulfilled. 

The date of A Midsummer Night's Dream is puzzling. 
Though we first find it mentioned in 1598 and it was 

[183] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

not entered for publication till 1600, most critics agree 
that it belongs circa 1594-1595. It has often been 
pointed out that its nature suggests a play written for 
festivities attending some marriage, but it has not as 
yet been possible finally to determine whose marriage. 
If we may strictly interpret the lines of Titania in 
Scene 1 of Act II as to the season of floods and other 
disasters, we should place the play in 1593-1594, but 
unfortunately just such topical allusions we know 
must not always be taken literally, and, when they 
may, often belong to some revival rather than to the 
original production. 

Any one who has experience in writing plays for 
special occasions knows the signs of that kind of com- 
position. In some way its author must connect such 
work directly, or by suggestion, with the time and place 
for which it has been written. Yet if the play is to 
hold together, it must contain some story, and that 
story must unroll itself sequentially and clearly. 
Therefore, the writer gives it what nowadays we choose 
to call its local color, particularly at the beginning and 
at the end. That is, in the mid space he develops a 
story which he started in conditions giving the mask 
or play special fitness, and which he concludes in some 
way connected with the occasion. He strives also, 
now and again in the course of telling the story, to 
connect it with the special circumstances which have 
called forth the play, but if his fable does not permit 
this or his skill is not equal to the task, his audience 

[184] 



THE ART OF PLOTTING MASTERED 

will probably not note the omission if he has made, 
at the opening and at the close, an effective connection 
between his play and the special occasion. 

Notice how completely this description fits the method 
used in A Midsummer Night's Dream. To Theseus 
and Hippolyta comes Egeus complaining that his 
daughter Hermia prefers Lysander to the man of his 
choice, Demetrius, and asking aid in forcing her to 
marry Demetrius. One wonders, on finding Shake- 
speare beginning a play, the purpose of which is chiefly 
amusement, as seriously as a tragedy, whether this 
play must not in date stand near The Comedy of Errors 
with its similar contrasts, and whether the Elizabethans 
may not have derived more satisfaction than we do 
from emotional contrasts so sharp as to be melodra- 
matic. Theseus, bidding Hermia obey her father or 
else submit to the law of Athens for such disobedience, 
— death or a vow to live forever single, — goes out with 
all except Lysander and Hermia. Neither Theseus 
nor Hippolyta returns till the end of the fourth act, 
just as the story of the lovers reaches its solution. 
Entering at this point, they make a transition to the 
fifth act, which, as a reader will probably remember, 
deals no longer with the story of the lovers, but with 
the performance of Pyramus and Thisbe by Bottom 
and his friends, and, finally, with the blessing invoked 
on the marriage by the fairies. The relation of Theseus 
and Hippolyta to the other figures of the play, the 
closing of the story of the lovers in Act IV instead of 

[185] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

Act V, and the blessing invoked by the fairies in the 
last scene of all, should be enough to convince any 
one that the play was written for some special occa- 
sion. Here are all the earmarks of such plays. 

Each group of the plot — the lovers, the rustics, 
the fairies — has its definite purpose in the work which 
the special conditions provided : the lovers make the 
main thread of story; Bottom and the rustics afford 
the low comedy which evokes steady laughter instead 
of the mere interest or the occasional laughter pro- 
duced by the story of the lovers ; and the fairies make 
the complicating element for each of the other two 
groups, bind them together, and, above all, give the 
graceful and fitting close which the dramatist for a 
special occasion must always find. Yet here are orig- 
inal strands of material as diverse as those which 
Shakespeare seemed to find it, in the chronicle plays, so 
difficult to weave into a perfect plot. Let us, therefore, 
watch for a moment Shakespeare's interweaving of the 
three groups and his exposition of the resulting plot. 
Any one must see, I think, that the interweaving is deft, 
concise, and always managed with a clear understand- 
ing of the relation of the public to any play given at 
such a festivity as a wedding. The order given Philo- 
strate in the first few lines prepares for connection, 
whenever in the play it seems best to Shakespeare, 
of the country actors with the group surrounding 
Hippolyta and Theseus. This first scene sets us well 
ahead, too, in the story of the four lovers. We hear 

[186] 



THE ART OF PLOTTING MASTERED 

the agreement of Hermia and Lysander to meet and 
flee from Athens, as well as Helena's decision to warn 
Demetrius of the flight. As we have learned, also, 
that Helena is in love with Demetrius, who loves 
Hermia, the love chase is well started. Now that 
we are eager to know what complications will ensue 
in this, we are introduced to the amusing country 
players planning for a performance before the Duke, 
Theseus. The next scene, to-day called the first of 
the second act, shows us the quarrel between Oberon 
and Titania resulting in his order to Puck to place the 
magic juice upon her eyes as she sleeps. This is, of 
course, the means for amusing complication later, her 
sudden passion for Bottom. Yet even as Oberon gives 
his orders, Demetrius, pursued by Helena, enters in 
search of Hermia. Oberon, overhearing Helena's 
vain importunings of Demetrius, orders Puck, when 
the lovers have left the stage, to follow and anoint 
the eyes of the sleeping Demetrius at such a time that 
on waking he shall see Helena and fall madly in love 
with her. That is, by the end of the third scene of the 
play, interest has been aroused in the three groups of 
figures ; the lovers and the fairies have been connected 
through Oberon ; and a cause for complications in 
all three groups has been set working. Naturally 
we are eager to press on. 

Note, as we proceed, Shakespeare's skill in the use 
of surprise that causes laughter. The very next scene 
has an element of surprise that must have greatly 

[187] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

amused its audience, for after Oberon has anointed 
the eyes of Titania as she sleeps, there comes a wholly 
unexpected complication in the fact that the other two 
lovers, Lysander and Hermia, wander in and lie down 
to sleep. Conceive the delight of the auditors as it 
dawns on them when Puck enters, that by mistake 
he will anoint the eyes of Lysander, already devoted 
to Hermia, instead of the eyes of Demetrius. Con- 
ceive, too, their keen anticipation of some such com- 
plication as that which follows immediately, when 
Lysander wakens to see Helena hastening by and 
falls instantly in love with her. Nor, as any one must 
see who has visualized the action, was amusement 
lessened by the fact that by the end of the fourth scene 
the play shows a complete reversal of the original 
condition of two of the lovers. It is now Hermia, 
lovelorn and bereft, who follows Lysander, who in 
turn follows Helena, just as Helena had at the outset 
followed Demetrius who followed Hermia. Surely the 
first laughable working out of the complication of the 
magic juice leaves us eager for others which we sus- 
pect must ensue before peace can come to the four lov- 
ers. The next scene, through mischievous Puck, gives 
us the crowning of Bottom with an ass's head, and 
the sudden passion of Titania, when she wakes, for 
Bottom thus equipped. The scene following this 
one is the height of the complications in the story 
of the lovers, for Oberon, discovering the mis- 
take of Puck, tries to set it right by having Puck 

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THE ART OF PLOTTING MASTERED 

anoint the eyes of Demetrius and bring Helena 
before him as he wakes. Conceive, again, the delight 
of the audience as it hears Oberon planning for this. 
They know, what neither Oberon nor Puck knows, of 
Lysander's sudden change to infatuation for Helena, 
and see that if she is brought before Demetrius as he 
wakes, there will only be confusion worse confounded. 
Then there will be two lovers for Helena and none for 
Hermia, where originally there had been none for her 
and two for Hermia. All this planning of Oberon 
must have been played to a ripple of laughter that 
became a roar when expectation was fulfilled by the 
waking Demetrius. Swiftly follows the quarrelling 
of the lovers, whose original relations are now com- 
pletely reversed, and the tricking of the men by Puck 
as he leads them on by false calls and cries. At last, 
wearied out, the men lie down to sleep near together, 
though unwitting because of the fog. To them enter 
singly the two women, also wearied and lost in the fog. 
They in turn lie down to sleep. When Puck has squeezed 
the juice on Lysander's eyes the scene closes, and unless 
a new complication, a new surprise develops, the end 
of the troubles of the lovers is in sight, since Demetrius 
now cares for Helena, and Lysander, when he wakes, 
will once more love Hermia. 

Shakespeare saw that to make space for the special 
application of his material in the fifth act, he must now 
swiftly bring the story part to a close. The strong 
feeling of Theseus in the first act that the laws of Athens 

[189] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

must hold, cannot withstand the discovery that De- 
metrius now cares for Helena, and above all, his desire 
not to miss the hunt, so the fourth act is a swift pre- 
sentation of the awakening of Titania from her illu- 
sion and the readjustment of the lovers, who wake at 
the right moment to find Theseus, Hippolyta, and 
Egeus beside them. Helena takes Demetrius, Hermia 
Lysander, and all is ready for the brief scene in which 
the restored Bottom arranges with his comrades for 
the performance which is to take place in the fifth 
act. The contents of that last act I have already 
noted. From this rapid summary it must be clear, 
I think, how much plotting there is in all this arrange- 
ment and adjustment of the three groups who make 
the incidents of the play, — the lovers, the rustics, and 
the fairies, — and even in the relating of the fourth 
group, Theseus and Hippolyta, to the other three. 
The skilful use of surprise also has been specially 
noteworthy. If we recall Shakespeare's inability in 
The Two Gentlemen of Verona to bring to a climax the 
suspense he created, we shall see how greatly he has 
gained by the time of writing A Midsummer Night's 
Dream. But successful dramatic surprise always im- 
plies an understanding of the audience for which it 
was planned. Clearly, then, Shakespeare in this play 
knows his audience better. Here is, too, just the 
masterly sense of dramatic values in originally separate 
groups of figures which was absent in the handling of 
the historical plays. But here imagination works unre- 

[190] 




An Early Type of Stages 



THE ART OF PLOTTING MASTERED 

stricted by any sense of fact, and characterization is, 
because of the nature of the occasion, not of first im- 
portance, as in the chronicle plays, but subordinate to 
incident, to story. 

Yet it is in the subordinated characterization that 
the deftness of Shakespeare's emphasis becomes ap- 
parent. Surely I need say nothing in praise of Bot- 
tom and his fellow-actors. Why they are so much 
better than our friends of Love's Labour's Lost, Costard, 
Jaquenetta, Don Armado, and Holof ernes, is evident : 
they are real, and not caricatures as are Don Armado 
and Holofernes ; they are amusing not only for what 
they say, but for what they do. Moreover, both what 
they say and what they do in every case adds to the 
clearness of their characterization. Of course, one 
does not expect the fairies to have much characteriza- 
tion. If Oberon is mildly jealous, Titania gently 
obstinate, and Puck always tricksy, that is enough 
for the story, and we should demand nothing more. 
But why is it that the middle group of the four lovers 
is so slightly characterized? Certainly, it is perfectly 
fair to say that they exist merely for the situations. 
Nor can one take refuge in the theory that Shakespeare 
was here not able to characterize them adequately; 
that is absurd in the face of characterization of far 
more difficult figures, in The Comedy of Errors and in 
the chronicle plays written by 1595. Besides, when 
Helena follows Demetrius in those early scenes, it 
is essentially only Venus and Adonis over again, and 

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DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

we know how comprehendingly Shakespeare could 
handle that situation by 1593. Why is this woman 
who cares for Demetrius so intensely that she scorns 
common report and pursues him from the city, little 
more than a puppet? I believe that the slightness of 
the characterization in this group, the emphasis on 
situation and on mannered dialogue rather than on 
the play of emotion which made these situations pos- 
sible, arose from Shakespeare's perfect understanding 
of the task set him by his special occasion. 

It was his business to provide for this wedding, 
or other festival, an amusing story ranging from 
light comedy of intrigue and situation to farce, 
and to give it all some special fitness for the occa- 
sion. To treat that group of lovers as the emotions 
they were experiencing would permit, to develop 
their characters as any adequate portrayal of their 
emotions would mean, would be to move his audi- 
ence in sympathy with those characters, to make 
the audience serious when it wished to smile, to ex- 
cite it when the spirit of the hour demanded laugh- 
ter. Moreover, if these lovers had been painted with, 
we will not say the intensity of imagination that went 
into Venus and Adonis, but even with the adequacy 
that marks the figure of Adriana, the wife, in The 
Comedy of Errors, these people would have held us not 
by the situation, but by their own humanness, their 
reality. But was it wise to subject a group of realistic- 
ally drawn figures to so improbable an experience as 

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THE ART OF PLOTTING MASTERED 

the magic juice? Has not dramatic practice shown 
that when mortals and fairies meet, it is best, if the 
proper illusion is to be produced, that the mortals 
shall be types, creatures of situation, rather than con- 
vincing studies of character? Is there not evident, 
then, a nice sense of values in these facts: of the 
rustics, the very real figures, only Bottom meets the 
fairies ; and even he only when bewitched, and that to 
the group of lovers, standing between the very real 
group and the unreal, the fairies, belongs only the real- 
ity of the situations in which they appear ? That is, the 
lovers make a bridge from the real to the unreal. Note, 
too, the care of the dramatist to make his fairies as real 
as possible, so that their intercourse with human beings 
may not seem too improbable. It is not simply that 
Oberon and Titania, in their jealousy and pique, show 
the failings of mortals, but that the references of 
Titania to conditions of flood and storm (Act II, Sc. 1), 
which the audience could remember, helped to mes- 
merize them into accepting the improbable as probable. 
In Love's Labour's Lost and The Two Gentlemen of 
Verona Shakespeare stood, as it were, amidst his 
material, accumbered by it, sure neither of its dramatic 
values nor of the methods by which to give his material 
full dramatic effect. In A Midsummer Night's Dream 
one can see that Shakespeare has gained the power 
of looking at his material from outside; of selecting 
and arranging from it, not merely according to some 
controlling idea of his own, but in the light of his pre- 
o [ 193 ] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

ceding experiences with audiences. He emerges tri- 
umphantly from the problems raised by the limitations 
of the special conditions under which the play was to 
be given and by the ordinary attitude of his audience 
toward his improbable plot. Once again, too, we have 
in this play proof that while he is as much of a poet as 
ever, his poetry serves, no longer dominates, his dra- 
matic purpose. What is particularly noteworthy is 
that in this play he is no longer adapting, as in The 
Comedy of Errors, Titus Andronicus, and even The Two 
Gentlemen of Verona, but, as we suspect is the case in 
Love's Labour's Lost, is creating the fable which makes 
the core of his plot. But the difference in complica- 
tion of narrative and in technical mastery between that 
last play and A Midsummer Night's Dream ! If Shake- 
speare by 1595 could provide as ingenious and well- 
wrought plots as this, why his weakness in extracting 
equally good plots from the material of the chronicles, 
unless he felt that the purpose of the historical play 
was different? But thus far in the best accomplish- 
ment of Shakespeare outside of the chronicle play it 
is situation rather than characterization which has 
been of prime importance. Let us see how his growing 
technique stood the greater test put upon it when his 
plan called for characterization of subtler or more 
unusual figures. 

Let us look now at a play which deals in human fact 
as much as A Midsummer Night's Dream deals in 
fancy, namely, Romeo and Juliet. The first quarto of 

[1941 



THE ART OF PLOTTING MASTERED 

it, in 1597, is probably from a stage copy condensed 

for acting purposes, and none too well printed. It is 

clear that the second quarto in 1599, though it has been 

revised in a few places for whole speeches, and has been 

touched up verbally throughout, represents, except in 

these respects, the play from which the first quarto 

was cut down. If the words of the nurse in Act I, 

Sc. 3, 

" 'Tis since the earthquake now eleven years," 

may be trusted, a version of the play, probably the 
first, belonged to 1591. It is probably fair to say that 
it was first written by Shakespeare in 1591, but in its 
form of the 1599 quarto was revised about 1594 or 
1595. It would be interesting, if space permitted, to 
trace the popularity of the story of Romeo and Juliet 
and its analogues upon the Continent, but it must 
suffice here to say that it was specially known in Eng- 
land through a poem of Arthur Broke, or Brooke, first 
printed in 1562, and Paynter's collections of stories, The 
Palace of Pleasure, first printed in 1566-1577. The 
verse and prose accounts show only slight differences. 
Broke in his dedication to the reader states that he 
"saw the same argument lately set forth upon the stage 
with more commendation than I can look for : (being 
there much better set forth than I have or can be) yet 
the same matter penned as it is, may serve to right 
good effect if the readers do bring with them like good 
minds to consider it." Indeed, knowing the dramatic 
economy of these Elizabethan dramatists, one is in- 

[1951 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

clined to suspect that the resemblances between Broke 
and Shakespeare are largely resemblances due to a 
common origin and that both owed much to this lost 
play so complimented by Broke. If ; however, Broke 
is Shakespeare's original, it provides him with all his 
characters, though by no means with all the details 
of these characters which we find deftly filled in by 
Shakespeare. 

Surely it is hardly necessary, after all the plot 
analyses already given, to ask a reader to watch in 
detail Shakespeare's exposition in this play. I am 
sure all must have felt the swiftness of its movement, 
the crowding of exciting incident on exciting incident, 
and have recognized how deftly Shakespeare gets his 
comedy relief from figures very essential to the story, 
in particular Mercutio and the nurse. It is note- 
worthy, too, I think, that this play shows better than 
any we have thus far considered Shakespeare's skill in 
making a scene which aids the tragic movement of the 
story call up a lighter mood as it opens, or touch that 
lighter mood in skilful contrast even as the scene 
progresses. 1 That, however, in Romeo and Juliet, to 
which I wish to call attention especially, is its motiva- 
tion. 

In the first place, that opening scene of the quarrel 
in the streets is dramatically a model. In the original, 
if Broke be this, we merely hear that, because of re- 
peated street brawls, the Prince had uttered por- 
>See Act III, Sc. 1; Act IV. Re, 5; Act III. Sc. 3. 
L 196 J 



THE ART OF PLOTTING MASTERED 

tentous threats as to what he should do if more trouble 
came. In Broke we see him act only after the killing 
of Tybalt. The opening scene with Shakespeare, be- 
ginning amusingly, expounds immediately by action 
in the quarrel of the followers of the two houses; 
rushes to a climax of excitement in the entrance of the 
Prince; and gives us in his wrathful forbidding of all 
further outbreaks on pain of death the first complicat- 
ing element in a play as yet hardly begun. What 
better motivation, too, than a mother's anxiety, could 
there be for the ensuing talk in regard to Romeo ? Yet 
it masks information that must be ours before we can 
enter into the play understandingly. Notice, also, 
that Tybalt, who in the story appears first in the later 
street fight resulting in his death, is so characterized 
by this scene as to make all his later attitude toward 
Romeo consistent and natural. That Romeo and his 
friend should go to the house of Capulet is, considering 
the bitter feud between the two families, not at all 
well motived in the poem. In the play the chance 
meeting of Romeo and Benvolio with the stupid ser- 
vant of Capulet who cannot read the directions which 
have been given him, aptly puts the idea into their 
heads. Moreover, Benvolio completely justifies the 
madcap adventure for us, as for Romeo, by pointing 
out that the fair Rosalind will be a guest at this feast. 
It is noteworthy, too, that while Juliet is sixteen in 
Broke and eighteen in Paynter, she is but fourteen in 
the play. 

11197 3 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

That change is, I believe, but one of several devices 
on the part of Shakespeare to overcome what must 
have seemed to him the chief problem the story pre- 
sented. We are to watch the tragedy of a love at first 
sight, so intense and overmastering that it sweeps 
everything before it. Probably that was not very 
much more convincing in the days of Elizabeth than 
it is to-day, and its unusualness was increased by the 
fact that the five-act limit compelled Shakespeare to 
bring about his scenes much more rapidly than was the 
case in the poem. For instance, in the poem some 
weeks elapse between the scene of Romeo and Juliet 
at the Capulets, and their next meeting, so that their 
love was fostered inasmuch as they increasingly desired 
to meet yet could not. With Shakespeare, Juliet, when 
first we see her, is a mere child, whose mother and nurse 
are talking to her of marriage. Seeking to prepare her 
to love the County Paris, they succeed only in preparing 
her to fall in love with the man of her own choice. 
That motivation was carefully considered in this play 
is shown by this fact : in the condensed stage version, 
which the first quarto represents, the scene in which 
Benvolio and Borneo talk of the latter's love for Rosa- 
lind is cut only just at the end. Evidently artificial 
though that scene seems to-day, it was too important 
in the motivation of the later scenes to be sacrificed when 
the play was cut. Surely it was not kept for its verbal 
play, when scenes of crowding incident lay just ahead, 
but rather because its content is essential to an under- 

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THE ART OF PLOTTING MASTERED 

standing of the story. And what does it signify ? Just 
contrast its playing with sentiment, its delight in its own 
emotions, with the simplifying effect in phrase of real 
passion in the first balcony scene, and, above all, in the 
final parting the morning after the marriage. Those 
three scenes form the best text-book I know on the 
way in which phrase may connote as well as denote a 
state of mind. That first scene in which the two men 
talk of Rosalind shows a youth luxuriating in his own 
sense of dawning manhood, in love with being in love. 
Emotionally he is just where, in the rebound from the re- 
buffs of Rosalind, for whom he has never really deeply 
cared, he is likely to fall intensely and genuinely in 
love with the right person the moment she appears. 
Even in that balcony scene there are in its richness 
of imagery traces of a self-consciousness which fades as 
the emotion deepens. All consciousness of phrase for 
its own sake, however, is burned away in the absorbed 
intensity of that passionate parting at daybreak. 

It is interesting, too, that, even before we meet 
Juliet, we learn that the County Paris is a suitor for 
her hand. How much more portentous becomes this 
sudden love between the daughter of the Capulets and 
the son of the Montagues than it was in the poem, 
where, when they meet, we have heard no edict of death 
in case of further fighting between the two houses; 
have not seen how ready Tybalt is to draw his sword 
against a Montague; and know of no rival suitor 
favored heartily by the father. The meeting in the 

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DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

play, especially after Tybalt has only with difficulty 
been restrained from attacking Romeo for his inso- 
lence in coming as a guest, means that this love affair 
must sooner or later bring drawn swords and that 
drawn swords must result in death for some and ban- 
ishment for others. Such careful inworking early of 
figures who came late in the original story is just what 
makes possible the tragic significance for us of the first 
meeting which, to these two young lovers, is a moment 
of unqualified happiness. Shakespeare has had no 
tragic contrast like that before. Such a contrast, also, 
is possible not for him who merely has the dramatic 
instinct to see it, but only for him who has, too, the 
technical equipment which sends him straight to the 
details and characters which must be worked in early 
if this contrast, largely missed in the original, is to 
come out in the play. 

Moreover, one of the most perfect pieces of artistry 
in the play is the way in which Mercutio, who does 
so much to lighten the necessary exposition of the early 
scenes, is made the cause of one of the most tragic 
moments, the banishment of Romeo. It is true that 
in Broke Romeo enters the fray only to quiet it and 
strike up the weapons, but there he is led into killing 
Tybalt, because of the latter' s furious assault upon him 
as he tries to make peace. In the play Shakespeare 
does everything he can to heighten the tragic effect 
and the irony of the situation by relieving Romeo as 
far as possible of responsibility for his fight with 

[200] 




A Typical Elizabethan Inn- Yard 

(The Four Swans) 




A Play at One End of an Inn-Yard 



THE ART OF PLOTTING MASTERED 

Tybalt. When Tybalt tries to draw him into a fight, 
Romeo puts Tybalt aside, to the great wrath of Mer- 
cutio, who picks up the quarrel. It is only after news 
is brought Romeo of Mercutio's death that, in grief 
and anger, he loses his control and consents to fight. 
Of course, the main purpose of all this is to keep us 
wholly sympathetic with the lovers, but surely in some 
part this is done to heighten the irony of the banish- 
ment. 

The sureness of Shakespeare's dramatic instinct 
in this play shows nowhere more clearly than in 
making this fight occur not some weeks after the 
marriage, as in the poem, but between the time of the 
marriage morning and its evening. Even as happi- 
ness seems secured for the lovers, the family feud tears 
them apart. Just conceive, on the Elizabethan stage, 
the splendid irony and pathos of the contrast, when 
that soliloquy of Juliet dreaming of her husband's 
coming followed instantly the scene which closed with 
his banishment to Mantua. The audience must have 
been fairly aquiver with sympathy when the nurse 
entered with her evil news, — an effect, as I have pointed 
out, often lost for us because of our long stage waits. 
Again, as illustrating the care with which all the little 
details were so handled in this play as to make the 
later situations convincing, notice Sc. 3 of Act II. 
Here, when we first meet the friar, he is busied with his 
herbs and simples, so that when the time comes for 
the potion for Juliet, it will be perfectly natural to 

[201] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

us that he should provide it. Motivation, then ; not 
merely within the scene but so as perfectly to relate 
part with part within a play, and so as cunningly to 
expound character, Shakespeare understands in Romeo 
and Juliet. 

What marks this play, too, besides minute care in 
motivation is perfection of dramatic phrase. I say 
" dramatic phrase" because that may be quite distinct 
from poetic phrase. Power of poetic phrase we saw 
that Shakespeare possessed even in his earliest work. 
In it he has simply matured as the years have passed. 
Dramatic phrase means that whether the dialogue be 
narrating, describing, expounding character, or seem- 
ingly indulging in beauty for beauty's own sake, its 
phrase shall, first of all, be in character. It is not 
enough that it shall merely tell what we need to know, 
or be beautiful in itself, whether the statement fit the 
character or not ; nor is it the highest form of dramatic 
phrase unless it shall be not merely what the character 
might have said, but what we feel the character must 
have said under the circumstances. That is, perfect 
dramatic phrase has the quality of definitiveness. 
Moreover, perfect dialogue creates a sympathetic mood 
in the hearer. Here, then, are the characteristics of 
perfect dialogue : it must definitively characterize ; 
it may create a sympathetic mood in the hearer; and 
it may have a rich poetic beauty of its own. It is at 
its highest when it combines all these three qualities. 
What it rests on is a complete sympathetic under- 

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THE ART OF PLOTTING MASTERED 

standing of the characters and an equally complete 
visualization of the scene: the dramatist must feel 
what his character is feeling and see exactly what, as 
a consequence, he is doing. 

The death of Mercutio — it takes but a few lines — 
proves how completely by 1595 Shakespeare under- 
stood perfect dramatic dialogue. It is impossible to 
read it without visualizing it, for the phrases grow out of 
the movements of the figures, and even out of the physi- 
cal pain which makes Mercutio writhe as he speaks, — 

Romeo. Hold, Tybalt ! good Mercutio ! 

[Tybalt under Romeo's arm stabs Mercutio, and flies with his 
followers. 

Mercutio. I am hurt. 

A plague o' both your houses ! I am sped. 
Is he gone, and hath nothing? 

Benvolio. What, art thou hurt ? 

Mer. Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch ; marry, 'tis enough. 
Where is my page ? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon. [Exit Page. 

Rom. Courage, man ; the hurt cannot be much. 

Mer. No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door ; 
but 'tis enough, 'twill serve : ask for me to-morrow, and you shall 
find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. 
A plague o' both your houses ! 'Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a 
cat, to scratch a man to death ! a braggart, a rogue, a villain, that 
fights by the book of arithmetic ! Why the devil came you between 
us ? I was hurt under your arm. 

Rom. I thought all for the best. 

Mer. Help me into some house, Benvolio, 
Or I shall faint. A plague o' both your houses ! 
They have made worms' meat of me : I have it, 
And soundly too : your houses ! 

[Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio. 
— Act III, Sc. 1. 
{203|| 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

How perfect in characterization, how impossible 
without complete visualization that last broken phrase : 
"Your houses!" That is character in action, defini- 
tively presented. 

Notice, too, in the first balcony scene, the growth 
from somewhat conscious phrase in the opening 
lyricism, through a simpler phrasing as the thought 
deepens with the deepening feeling, to such absorption 
in feeling that the phrase is perfectly simple, and finally 
to such intensity of feeling as can find expression only 
in little commonplaces or in action rather than words. 
I think these four extracts taken in succession from 
this scene show what I mean. 

I. Conscious phrasing : — 

Romeo. The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, 
As daylight doth a lamp ; her eyes in heaven 
Would through the airy region stream so bright 
That birds would sing and think it were not night. 
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand ! 
O, that I were a glove upon that hand, 
That I might touch that cheek ! 

II, III. Deepening feeling that leads to simpler and 
simpler phrase : — 

Romeo. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear 
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops — 

Juliet. 0, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, 
That monthly changes in her circled orb, 
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. 

Rom. What shall I swear by ? 

Jul. Do not swear at all ; 

Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, 

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THE ART OF PLOTTING MASTERED 

Which is the god of my idolatry, 
And I'll believe thee. 

Rom. If my heart's dear love — 

Jul. Well, do not swear : although I joy in thee, 
I have no joy of this contract to-night : 
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden ; 
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be 
Ere one can say "It lightens." Sweet, good night! 
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, 
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. 
Good night, good night ! as sweet repose and rest 
Come to thy heart as that within my breast ! 

Rom. 0, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied ? 

Jul. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night ? 

Rom. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine. 

Jul. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it : 
And yet I would it were to give again. 

Rom. Wouldst thou withdraw it ? for what purpose, love ? 

Jul. But to be frank, and give it thee again, 
And yet I wish but for the thing I have : 
My bounty is as boundless as the sea. 
My love as deep ; the more I give to thee, 

The more I have, for both are infinite. [Nurse calls within. 

I hear some noise within ; dear love, adieu ! 
Anon, good nurse ! Sweet Montague, be true. 
Stay but a little, I will come again. [Exit, above. 

Rom. O blessed, blessed night ! I am afeard, 
Being in night all this is but a dream, 
Too flattering-sweet to be substantial. 

Re-enter Juliet, above. 

Jul. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed. 
If that thy bent of love be honorable, 
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, 
By one that I'll procure to come to thee, 
Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite ; 
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay 
And follow thee my lord throughout the world. 

[ 205] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

Nurse. [Within] Madam ! 

Jul. I come, anon. — But if thou mean'st not well 
I do beseech thee — 

Nurse. [Within] Madam ! 

Jul. By and by, I come : — 

To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief : 
To-morrow will I send. 

Rom. So thrive my soul — 

Jul. A thousand times good night ! [Exit above. 

IV. Feeling so intense that it finds expression only in 
the commonplace or in action rather than words : — 

Romeo. It is my soul that calls upon my name : 
How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, 
Like softest music to attending ears ! 

Juliet. Romeo ! 

Rom. My dear? 

Jul. At what o'clock to-morrow 

Shall I send to thee ? 

Rom. At the hour of nine. 

Jul. I will not fail : 'tis twenty years till then. 
I have forgot why I did call thee back. 

Rom. Let me stand here till thou remember it. 

Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, 
Remembering how I love thy company. 

Rom. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget, 
Forgetting any other home but this. 

— Act II, Sc. 2. 

I should not be willing to say that that change in 
vocabulary and method is the result of conscious plan; 
rather I think it simply a proof that in Romeo and 
Juliet Shakespeare, so far as insight into character 
and phrase are concerned, had attained mastery in his 
craft. For what does mastery in those respects mean 

[206] 



THE ART OF PLOTTING MASTERED 

except this: that quick and well-trained sympathy- 
have made it possible for the dramatist to lose himself 
in his characters; and that an instantly responsive 
vocabulary phrases with exactness just the feeling 
those sympathies have set astir in the dramatist? 
So perfectly responsive, too, is such a vocabulary that 
when the mood is less vital, because more conscious, the 
phrase shows this, and, as the feeling deepens, marks 
the change like some delicately adjusted instrument. 
Yet to say all this is to repeat the commonplace, that 
style, at its best, is only the perfect mirror of one's 
thought and feeling. 

In the preceding chapters I complained that Shake- 
speare did not at first know how to hold a situation so 
as to get from it its full dramatic possibilities. Con- 
trast that scene, in Part I of Henry VI, in which the 
French Countess tries to make a prisoner of Talbot 
with the balcony scene I have just been considering. 
As I have already said, a modern dramatist, for instance, 
Sardou, would have spun out the scene till every per- 
mutation of emotion in a battle of wits between these 
two figures had been worked up to a fine emotional 
climax. In Shakespeare there is little more than a 
mutual defiance before the soldiers enter and release 
Talbot. How inadequate that all seems when com- 
pared with these pages of Romeo and Juliet, in 
which nothing except the increasing intensity of 
youthful passion holds us enthralled as the scene 
passes from conscious phrasing to feeling so deep that 

[207] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

it can find expression only in action rather than 
words. 

How completely, too, in this play, Shakespeare un- 
derstands that subtlest of tasks for the dramatist, — 
the creation of atmosphere. I have already remarked 
how perfectly that opening scene of the quarrel in the 
streets creates the atmosphere of unrest, uncertainty, 
and imminent danger which the play needs as a back- 
ground if the love of Romeo and Juliet is to have its 
full dramatic significance. Shakespeare depends much 
for his dramatic contrasts upon his sure creation of 
atmosphere. How carefully, too, he makes us feel 
the gayetyof the preparations for the marriage of Juliet 
to the County Paris, knowing that we spectators are 
still torn with pity because we have just left Juliet 
lying in her chamber in a stupor. That is, whether 
he wishes atmosphere for a moment, for a scene, or as 
a background, he gains it, and with sure hand. 

Yet, though Shakespeare in Romeo and Juliet so 
tells his story that he gives the play three permanent 
essentials of great drama, — atmosphere, perfect dramatic 
phrasing, and convincing characterization, — he was, of 
course, writing only for his immediate audience. 
Keenly sensitive to its likings and moods, he moulded 
his exposition to accord with these. This, the end of 
the play, for instance, proves. It shows that his 
audience was, above all, interested in a story play. 
It is perhaps true that Romeo and Juliet is still for us 
largely a story play, but to-day we do not care for that 

[208] 



THE ART OF PLOTTING MASTERED 

long recapitulation at the end by the Friar of what has 

already been shown us in action. 1 We close the play 

1 Friar. I will be brief, for my short date of breath 
Is not so long as is a tedious tale. 
Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet; 
And she, there dead, that Romeo's faithful wife : 
I married them; and their stolen marriage-day 
Was Tybalt's dooms-day, whose untimely death 
Banish'd the new-made bridegroom from this city; 
For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pin'd. 
You, to remove that siege of grief from her, 
Betroth'd, and would have married her perforce 
To County Paris : then, comes she to me, 
And, with wild looks, bid me devise some means 
To rid her from this second marriage, 
Or in my cell there would she kill herself. 
Then gave I her (so tutor'd by my art) 
A sleeping potion ; which so took effect 
As I intended, for it wrought on her 
The form of death : meantime, I writ to Romeo, 
That he should hither come, as this dire night, 
To help to take her from her borrow 'd grave, 
Being the time the potion's force should cease. 
But he which bore my letter, Friar John, 
Was stay'd by accident, and yesternight 
Return'd my letter back. Then, all alone, 
At the prefixed hour of her waking, 
Came I to take her from her kindred's vault, 
Meaning to keep her closely at my cell, 
Till I conveniently could send to Romeo : 
But, when I came (some minute ere the time 
Of her awakening) , here untimely lay 
The noble Paris, and true Romeo, dead. 
She wakes; and I entreated her come forth, 
And bear this work of heaven with patience : 
But then a noise did scare me from the tomb, 
And she, too desperate, would not go with me, 
But (as it seems) did violence on herself. 
All this I know, and to the marriage 

p [ 209 ] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

either with the death of the lovers or with the coming 
of the Watch and the Prince. But any one knows that 
untrained listeners, such as children, deeply enjoy such 
a recapitulation. It looks as if in 1595 the Elizabethan 
audience liked to be reminded, as a play closed, of what 
had happened to all involved in the final tragic situa- 
tion. To-day the intensity of our sympathy with Romeo 
and Juliet leaves us with no thought for any one else. 

In this play, then, Shakespeare, though working 
for immediate results, has developed such insight 
into character, has so matured in power of phrase, 
and has so mastered the technique of the drama 
that the ephemeral causes for interest and popularity 
are as nothing in comparison with the permanent. What 
a contrast in this respect between A Midsummer 
Night's Dream and Romeo and Juliet, on the one hand, 
and, on the other, the preceding plays considered ! 

The Merchant of Venice, like Romeo and Juliet, is 
primarily a play of storj 7 rather than of characterization, 
undeniably fine as the characterization in both plays is. 
If an} r one has doubts as to this, let him consider care- 
fully the relation of the last act to the other acts. The 
figure of Shylock, which has become for us central in the 
play because of the emphasis placed upon it by modern 
actors, is allowed to disappear at the end of Act IV. 

Her nurse is privy; and, if aught in this 
Miscarried by my fault, let my old life 
Be sacrific'd some hour before his time 
Unto the rigor of severest law. 

[210 1 




^fanthisJctic (Vteruu- 



*XjC QhloiHairiatulfiU u^aruune^du 



'/, 



M 



The De Witt Drawing of the Swan Theatre in 1596 



THE ART OF PLOTTING MASTERED 

The many queries sure to arise in the mind of any one 
who has been deeply interested in him are left wholly 
unanswered. That is not the method used by a drama- 
tist when the characterization of a special figure is 
meant by him to be the prime interest of his audience. 
Indeed, when one notes that Shylock appears in but 
five scenes of the entire play, and that only two of these 
are long, it must be clear, even though his characteriza- 
tion be definitive, that the far greater emphasis on the 
love story of Bassanio and Portia shows what Shake- 
speare expected to win and hold the attention of the 
public. In that last act the figure of the merchant 
himself, Antonio, practically disappears ; the emphasis 
is so placed by means of the complication of the rings 
that the love story compels attention to the very end 
of the play. It may be surmised that Shakespeare de- 
rived most personal satisfaction in creating Shylock, 
but that does not affect the fact that, with nice feeling 
for the everyday interests of his audience, he made his 
play primarily one of story rather than of characteriza- 
tion. 

Moreover, in handling this story Shakespeare shows 
that he has now acquired in perfection the art of so in- 
terweaving in his narrative many different strands of 
interest that if the sources were not known, no one 
would suspect him of bringing together incidents 
and episodes not originally connected. In what 
was probably the original of the play, an Italian 
collection of tales, II Pecorone of Ser Giovanni Fioren- 

[211] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

tino, there is no original for the Lorenzo- Jessica story. 
In the play the casket scene replaces source material 
distinctly salacious. Either some playwright whose 
play Shakespeare revised — for there is suspicion of 
a play on the same subject preceding Shakespeare's l — 
made both the addition to the story and this change in 
it or Shakespeare did. How much the addition of that 
Lorenzo-Jessica story accomplishes ! As Professor 
Moulton has pointed out, 2 it bridges over the time 
which must elapse between the signing of the bond and 
its forfeiture; it fills time so that Antonio's losses do 
not seem improbably immediate ; it brings out in con- 
trast the tenderer side of Shylock; and it allows much 
poetry to come into the play. Considering the incom- 
petence of the predecessors of Shakespeare, except 
Greene and Marlowe, in this matter of motivation and 
adjustment, it is probable that this competent use of the 
Jessica-Lorenzo story is wholly Shakespeare's. Nothing, 
too, is more characteristically Shakespearean than the 
way in which the poetic episode of the caskets replaces 
coarse material in the original. This same sublimation 
of the coarse to the richly poetic is what we shall find 
constantly recurring as we compare Shakespeare's 
sources and his finished products. As I have said before, 

1 Gosson, in his School of Abuse (1579), speaks of a current play, 
The Jew, "representing the greediness of worldly chusers and bloody 
minds of usurers " ; and in the same year Spenser, in a letter to Gabriel 
Harvey, makes references which show that both knew a play contain- 
ing the bond and probably the casket incidents. 

2 Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist, R. G. Moulton, Ch. III. 

[212] 



THE ART OF PLOTTING MASTERED 

it could not have been the public that forced this ; it was 
Shakespeare's own instinctive sense of the dignity of his 
art and his enj oyment of poetry for its own sake . Finally, 
let me quote Professor Moulton's statement in his 
Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist as to the plotting 
in this comedy, perhaps the most complex of any Shake- 
spearean play, certainly the most so of any play we have 
thus far considered. Professor Moulton has pointed 
out that there are four divisions in the plot : the bond, 
the love of Bassanio and Portia, the love of Jessica and 
Lorenzo, and the episodes concerning the ring exacted 
by Portia from Bassanio at the close of the trial scene. 
"It is to be observed," says Professor Moulton, "that all 
four stories meet in the scene of the successful choice. 
This scene is the climax of the casket story. It is 
connected with the catastrophe in the story of the Jew : 
Bassanio, at the moment of his happiness, learns that 
the friend through whom he has been able to contend 
for the prize has forfeited his life to his foe, as the price 
of his liberality. This scene is connected with the 
Jessica story : for Jessica and her husband are the mes- 
sengers who bring the sad tidings, and thus link to- 
gether the bright and the gloomy elements of the play. 
Finally, the episode of the ring, which is to occupy the 
end of the drama, has its foundation in this scene, in 
the exchange of the rings, which are destined to be the 
cause of such ironical perplexity. Such is the symme- 
try with which the plot of The Merchant of Venice 
has been constructed : the incident which is technically 

[213] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

its dramatic centre is at once its mechanical centre, 
its poetic centre, and philosophically considered, its 
true turning-point; while considering the play as a 
romantic drama, with its union of stories, we find in 
the same central incident all the four stories dovetailed 
together." 

Such firm, deft plotting as this rests upon a perfect 
understanding by the dramatist of two things : his own 
artistic purpose and the relation of his public to his 
original material and the development he desires to give 
that material. For instance, Shakespeare added to his 
story because he knew his public liked a crowded plot 
and because the plot in its simplest form contained 
glaring improbabilities which demanded beguiling 
motivation. He gave his last act to a climactic presen- 
tation of the complication of the rings because he felt 
that his audience would find their keenest pleasure in 
the love story as such. But he dared to lift his au- 
dience far beyond its usual level by his constant, inci- 
sive touches of characterization, his substitution of the 
casket scene with its rich poetry for the coarse details 
of his source, his thoughtful comment on life, and by 
such splendid passages of poetry as "The quality of 
Mercy is not strained." Is there not here a perfect 
illustration of the right relation of the dramatist to his 
public ? Considering his audience, regarding it, Shake- 
speare moulded his material so that while it delighted 
them as much or more than the work of his contem- 
poraries, he yet accomplished in characterization what 

[214] 



THE ART OF PLOTTING MASTERED 

most interested him, and by poetry, philosophic com- 
ment, and ideality lifted his audience to an unwonted 
level of artistic appreciation. 

This ability to hold at the same time two points of 
view — an absolute necessity for any great dramatist 
— is what this play constantly illustrates. It is shown 
in what I have already commented on ; namely, Shake- 
speare's notable skill, for instance in the trial scene, in 
handling the same material so that it is tragic as seen 
and felt by Shylock, and richly comic as seen and felt 
by Gratiano and the other friends of Antonio. More- 
over, in Shylock we have the first instance in the Eliza- 
bethan drama of a sympathetic presentation of an 
unpopular figure. It is true that in The Jew of 
Malta by Marlowe, the experiment seems to have been 
made in Act I and part of Act II ; but thereafter Bara- 
bas becomes a figure which must have given delight 
to the Jew-baiters of the time. What made these Jew- 
baiters particularly numerous and fierce in 1594-1596 
was the recent execution of Dr. Lopez, a Portuguese 
Jew, for alleged conspiracy against the life of Queen 
Elizabeth. 1595-1596 was an odd time for the present- 
ing of a kindly portrait of an harassed and wily Jew, 
yet here it is. I am no believer in the theory that Shake- 
speare meant Shylock to be a comic figure. On that 
hypothesis, why the many appealing little touches such 
as the cry of Shylock when Tubal tells him Jessica has 
given his turquoise ring for a monkey, "I had it of 
Leah when I was a bachelor, I would not have given 

[215] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

it for a wilderness of monkeys" ? Perhaps Shakespeare's 
predecessors in their various Jew plays had made the 
usurer comic ; his degraders certainly did in the seven- 
teenth century; but no man with so just a sense of 
dramatic values as Shakespeare shows, in the trial scene, 
in his presentation of Shylock's disappointment, now 
tragically through Shylock's eyes, now through Gra- 
tiano's as amusing, could have written the lines of Shy- 
lock in this and other scenes merely to touch the 
risabilities of the Jew-haters in his audience. Neither 
in Shakespeare's day nor now does the fact that an 
audience can laugh at certain lines or scenes prove 
anything whatever as to the original purpose of the 
dramatist to make them laugh by these lines and 
scenes. If Shakespeare had wished to create laughter 
by Shylock, why did he keep him out of the fifth 
act, thus losing the many opportunities which his for- 
lorn, defeated condition would have given to delight 
the Jew-baiters ? 

What clear insight into the effect of his material on 
his audience and, as a consequence, what a sure sense 
of climax the dramatist shows in the trial scene ! In 
every way the audience is led at the outset to feel the 
hopelessness of Antonio's position, and very deftly 
the offer of double the original loan, which is refused, 
is made to serve both as a detail to emphasize Shylock's 
complete mastery of the situation and as a means of 
humiliation for Shylock at the end of the scene. When 
all seems ready for the catastrophe, the audience is kept 

[216] 



THE ART OF PLOTTING MASTERED 

in suspense by the arrival of Portia and Nerissa, but 
pleasurable suspense because of the handling of that 
incident. The strong, poetic appeal is made by Portia 
in the speech on mercy ; once again, the audience thrills 
as it hears from Portia herself that the bond places 
Antonio absolutely in Shylock's power. Suddenly the 
solution is hinted in those simple words of Portia : — 

" Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, 
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death." 

But not yet does Shakespeare let his audience see the 
solution. He throws out the hint and passes swiftly to 
the farewell speeches of Antonio and Bassanio in which 
one is made to feel that Shylock will have his pound of 
flesh. Then, when three times the audience has been 
taken up to the critical moment, there comes with a 
shock of surprise probably as keen for the Elizabethan 
audience as for Shylock himself, the words of Portia : — 

"Tarry a little : there is something else. 
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood; 
The words expressly are, a pound of flesh : 
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh ; 
But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 
Are by the laws of Venice confiscate 
Unto the state of Venice." 

But not even with this does Shakespeare allow the 
scene to end. Step by step, in perfect contrast with the 
way in which the net was drawn tighter and tighter about 
Antonio in the earlier part of the scene, it is now drawn 

[217] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

about Shylock, to his increasing surprise, mortification, 
and hopelessness. He is not allowed to take the money 
Bassanio would willingly give him instead of the pound 
of flesh. He learns that whether he takes it or not, he 
has incurred the law for his design upon Antonio. He 
leaves the court room baffled, broken in spirit and in for- 
tune. And then, with a swift turn, Shakespeare sets 
his audience laughing over the exchange of rings be- 
cause they can see the awkward situation which Bas- 
sanio is preparing for himself. It is true that for a 
modern reader the full climax comes at the exit of 
Shylock, but that is not true necessarily for an audience 
which found its prime interest in the story and which 
delighted, as is shown us by Shakespeare's plays and 
those of other writers of his time, in sharp contrasts 
between the serious or tragic and the comic or grotesque. 
Summed up in a word, all this accomplishment in 
A Midsummer Night's Dream, Romeo and Juliet, and The 
Merchant of Venice means mastery. In these plays 
Shakespeare has shown that whether working with a 
single strand or with many, he can develop a firm plot 
of compelling interest. A Midsummer Night's Dream 
proves that he has gained the power, which he had not 
acquired in Love's Labour's Lost, of developing a plot 
under hampering special conditions. All three plays 
demonstrate that by 1595-1596 he could develop his 
plots climactically, fulfilling all promises held out in 
earlier parts of the play, something he was unable to do 
in The Two Gentlemen of Verona. Romeo and Juliet and 

[218] 



THE ART OF PLOTTING MASTERED 

The Merchant of Venice are evidence that what appar- 
ently was beyond his powers in Titus Andronicus, 
namely, giving complete convincingness to improbable 
or relatively impossible story, no longer troubles him. 
Moreover, not only is his characterization now so true 
that it is the largest element in metamorphosing the 
improbable into what is readily accepted, but he handles 
it with an emphasis as sure as that demonstrated in the 
treatment of the fairy group, the lovers, and the rustics 
in A Midsummer Night's Dream. In Venus and Adonis 
and The Rape of Lucrece he showed control of poetic 
narrative : this group of plays is proof that in the inter- 
vening years he has mastered the art of narrative in the 
drama. He has gained it thus far, for farce in The 
Comedy of Errors, for melodrama in Titus Andronicus, 
for fantasy in A Midsummer Night's Dream, for romantic 
story in Romeo and Juliet, and The Merchant of Venice. 
The secret of mastery in the drama, namely, emphasis, 
is his in 1595-1596. Perfect emphasis, dramatically 
speaking, is that presentation of one's material by which 
the dramatic purpose is accurately fulfilled, yet so as 
to hold from start to finish the sympathetic and rapt 
attention of the audience, while drawing from it the larg- 
est emotional return to be derived from the story under 
the conditions of presentation. Shakespeare's acquire- 
ment of perfect emphasis rested upon two things: 
in the first place, each new story which he had to tell 
he apparently undertook with no rigid preconception as 
to what a play must be. That is, he was totally with- 

[219] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

out hampering preconceptions in regard to dramatic 
forms. On the other hand, he understood perfectly 
the conditions of the stage for which he was writing, 
and his relation to his audience was also one of sym- 
pathetic and kindly understanding. Resting on past 
experience with this audience, aided in part by certain 
principles of composition which he had found effective 
in his earlier efforts, but not holding rigidly to them if 
he saw any reason to depart therefrom, he faced each 
play as a special problem in technique. Is it not from 
this very fact that in every instance a Shakespearean 
play was practically an effort so to adapt a story to the 
stage that it should be as vivid as possible for a mixed 
audience, that a large part of Shakespeare's perennial 
hold on the public derives? 

If, by 1596, Shakespeare is master of the technique 
of pure story-telling on the stage, what remains for him ? 
Many reaches of character which he has not explored. 
As his experience with the chronicle plays suggested, 
exploration of those reaches could be so successfully 
phrased only in one of two forms which Shakespeare 
had not yet attained, — high comedy and tragedy. 
Subtler characterization leading to differentiation of 
dramatic forms is what lies ahead. 



[220] 




wrg*&K^^&&xj5msz5®m&K' 



Cross-section of the Elizabethan Stage 
CAdapted from a print by Brodmeier) 



A. Loft, possibly used for painted cloths. 

B. Loft for properties and machinery. 

C. Balcony Stage. 

D. Bear Stage. 



E. Inner Stage. 

F. Outer Stage. 

(x. Steps for Trap, etc. 

H. Space under Front Stage. 



CHAPTER VI 

HIGH COMEDY 

ALL of Shakespeare's work which in its extant 
form lies between 1597 and 1600 is marked by 
joyousness of spirit, indeed by an almost lilting gayety, 
combined with mastery of method. Nor, in saying this, 
am I thinking only of the plays which chiefly are the 
basis for my discussion of high comedy in Shakespeare, 
namely, Much Ado about Nothing, published in 1600 and 
probably written in the preceding year ; As You Like 
It, entered for publication on Aug. 4, 1600, but "staied," 
and not printed until the folio of 1623; and Twelfth 
Night, which cannot be placed later than Feb. 2, 1602, 
when we hear of a performance of it at the Middle 
Temple, but very likely not its first. I am thinking 
also of the revision of Henry V, probably in 1599, of 
The Taming of the Shrew, and The Merry Wives of 
Windsor, both of which, as we have them, belong be- 
tween 1597 and 1599. 1 

Whatever may be our feeling as to the proper classifi- 
cation of The Taming of the Shrew and The Merry Wives 

1 All's Well that Ends Well, even if its original form may go back 
to a date early in the nineties, in its existing form is usually placed 
circa 1602. 

§2213 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

of Windsor, surely no one questions the right of Much 
Ado about Nothing, As You Like It, and Twelfth Night 
to rank as comedies and as probably the best comedies 
our language knows. If farce be, as it is defined, "the 
form that shows us possible people doing improbable 
things/' it is easy to see that there is some reason for 
considering The Taming of the Shrew farce ; but here, 
as elsewhere in Shakespeare, forms mingle, and the 
rich poetry and the elevated tone of that last scene, in 
which Katherine makes her submission, leave a critic 
feeling that probably he should compromise and call 
The Taming of the Shrew farce-comedy. Surely, too, 
even if one is certain one does not recognize in the 
Falstaff of The Merry Wives the shrewd, resourceful 
Falstaff of Henry IV, and balks a little, too, at believ- 
ing even the FalstafT of The Merry Wives could so easily 
be led over and over into situations which any man of 
sense, especially in the light of this man's experiences, 
might expect to result disastrously, one is somehow 
unwilling to say that The Merry Wives is pure farce. 
The characterization is too real, the situations, except 
that centring about Heme the hunter, are too probable 
for pure farce. Rather compromise again becomes 
necessary: one declares The Merry Wives farce- 
comedy. 

But what does this word "comedy" which one hears 
so constantly and so glibly bandied about mean? It 
is one of the hardest words to define satisfactorily that 
I know. Often it is used as if it meant no more than 

[222] 



HIGH COMEDY 

a play that does not end sadly/ yet surely one can recall 
plays, particularly in the modern drama, in which a 
story of present-day life unrolls seriously, even with 
tragic moments, but not to an ending tragic nor even 
sad. For instance, Mr. Pinero's Lady Bountiful does 
just that. Brieux' Blanchette is of the same kind. 
For that matter, so is Measure for Measure. What, 
then, is such a play? We usually dodge the issue 
by calling it drame in imitation of the French, society 
drama, tragi-comedy, or most vaguely of all, simply 
play. But this dodging shows that the distinctions 
between comedy and tragedy need determining. Most 
definitions of comedy, like most dramatic nomenclature, 
hark back to Aristotle, whose incisive distinctions, in 
his Poetics, as to tragedy in his own day have so much 
truth that they have fairly hypnotized later generations 
into talking as if the tragedy and the comedy of their 
own days could be ultimately analyzed and described 
in terms of Aristotle. The fundamental distinction 
which I laid down in the first chapter of this book 
pointed to the underlying absurdity of such use of Aris- 
totle. Drama depends not merely on the dramatist, but 
also on his public, whose ideals may be vastly different 
from those of the Greek public. Even if the dramatist 

1 For instance, John Fletcher wrote in the address To the Reader 
prefixed to The Faithful Shepherdess : "A tragi-comedy is not so called 
in respect of mirth and killing, but in respect it wants deaths, which 
is enough to make it no tragedy, yet brings some near it, which is 
enough to make it no comedy, which must be a representation of 
familiar people, with such kind of trouble as no life be questioned." 

[223il 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

derive his inspiration from the past, he must so express 
it that it shall not be wholly foreign to the instincts 
and ideals of his audiences. 

Now, Aristotle says that " comedy aims at represent- 
ing men as worse, tragedy as better, than in actual 
life." Elsewhere he says: "Comedy is an imitation of 
characters of a lower type, — not, however, in the full 
sense of the word l bad/ the ludicrous being merely a 
subdivision of the ugly. It consists in some defect 
or ugliness which is not painful or destructive." That 
definition undoubtedly held true for the comedy of 
Aristotle's day, and accounts for Aristophanic farce 
as well as for Plautan comedy. Does it, however, 
without forcing, adequately account for Benedick, 
Touchstone, Viola, and Beatrice? Evidently, either 
Aristotle's definition was, after all, incomplete in its own 
day, or forms of comedy did not then exist which had 
developed in Shakespeare's work by 1600. Even when 
Dryden, modifying Aristotle a little, declared, in the 
latter part of the seventeenth century, that " Comedy 
presents us with the imperfections of human nature; 
[it] causes laughter in those who can judge of men and 
manners by the lively representation of their follies 
and corruption," is it not clear that Dryden is think- 
ing rather of his own practice and that of his contem- 
poraries than of the great comedies of Shakespeare ? 
Nor do we make much headway when we pass to such 
a glittering generality as " Comedy shows us possible 
people doing probable things." Are we quite sure 

[224] 



HIGH COMEDY 

that if Shakespeare had not thrown his spell over us, 
we should be convinced of the probability of all those 
forest experiences of Rosalind or the love adventures 
of Viola ? All these definitions smack too much of their 
period or author, and are not sufficiently inclusive. 
What room is there under them for the sentimental 
comedy of the eighteenth century, a comedy depend- 
ing on a sensibility in its public which the Greek would 
not at all have understood and against which so gen- 
uine a sentimentalist as Goldsmith protests even within 
the century. 

Is it not safest to say that the comic in general as 
distinguished from the tragic is a matter of the point of 
view from which the dramatist looks at his material 
and the emphasis he gives it ? Some forty lines in the 
scene of The Merchant of Venice to which I have already 
often referred illustrate the truth of this statement. 

Portia. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast : 
The law allows it, and the court awards it. 

Shylock. Most learned judge ! A sentence ! Come, prepare ! 

Por. Tarry a little ; there is something else. 
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood; 
The words expressly are "a pound of flesh. " 
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh ; 
But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 
Unto the state of Venice. 

Gratiano. O upright judge ! Mark, Jew : O learned judge ! 

Shy. Is that the law ? 

Por. Thyself shalt see the act : 

Q [ 225 ] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

For, as thou urgest justice, be assured 

Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest. 

Gra. O learned judge ! Mark, Jew : a learned judge ! 

Shy. I take this offer, then ; pay the bond thrice 
And let the Christian go. 

Bassanio. Here is the money. 

Por. Soft! 
The Jew shall have all justice ; soft ! no haste : 
He shall have nothing but the penalty. 

Gra. Jew ! an upright judge, a learned judge ! 

Por. Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh. 
Shed thou no blood, nor cut thou less nor more 
But just a pound of flesh : if thou cut'st more 
Or less than a just pound, be it but so much 
As makes it light or heavy in the substance, 
Or the division of the twentieth part 
Of one poor scruple, nay, if the scale do turn 
But in the estimation of a hair, 
Thou diest and all thy goods are confiscate. 

Gra. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew ! 
Now, infidel, I have you on the hip. 

Por. Why doth the Jew pause ? take thy forfeiture. 

Shy. Give me my principal, and let me go. 

Bass. I have it ready for thee ; here it is. 

Por. He hath refused it in the open court : 
He shall have merely justice and his bond. 

Gra. A Daniel, still say I, a second Daniel ! 
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. 

Is it not clear that whether this scene is comic or 
tragic depends on whether you look at it through the 
eyes of Shylock or the eyes of Gratiano? Is it not 
perfectly clear, too, that some of our later actors, 
notably the late Sir Henry Irving, have emphasized 
the lines of Shylock so deftly that the interruptions of 

[226] 



HIGH COMEDY 

Gratiano, which doubtless delighted the audience of 
Shakespeare's day, become almost irritating to us? 
It is easy to believe, however, that before an audience, 
for some special reason stirred with race hatred against 
the Jew, that scene might be so emphasized as to 
bring shouts of delight after every speech of Gratiano, 
transmuting the tragic into the comic. We know, at 
any rate, that by the end of the seventeenth century 
Shylock had become a comic figure. But is all this 
more than saying that with any given incident which 
we wish to present on the stage, if we emphasize its 
serious significance, we write either insufficiently mo- 
tivated serious drama, which is melodrama, or ade- 
quately motivated serious drama, which is tragedy, and 
if we treat the same incident for its potential amus- 
ingness, we may range from the exaggerated emphasis 
which means farce or extravaganza through all the 
region of comedy? I say " all the region of comedy," 
for we shall soon see that comedy subdivides and 
badly needs mapping. Primarily, then, the comic 
depends on the point of view of the writer, for this 
determines his selection of material, and on his em- 
phasis, for this is the means by which he makes it serve 
the ends he has in view. The importance of emphasis 
in creating comic effect becomes obvious if one con- 
siders what would have happened if the scenes in which 
Maria, Sir Toby, and Feste torment Malvolio had 
not been so emphasized that the sympathies of the 
Elizabethan audience went with the tormentors. Mis- 

[227 J 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

emphasis would have meant lack of sympathy and 
consequent indifference to the whole scene, or even, 
worst of all, sympathy for Malvolio. In the last case 
what was meant for a highly amusing practical joke 
would for the audience have seemed unpardonable 
tormenting. In brief, the comic is struck, like a spark, 
from the impact on an audience with well-understood 
ideals and sympathies by material carefully empha- 
sized with regard to those ideals and sympathies. 
The comic is a cooperative process ; like electricity, it 
requires a positive and a negative pole. 

Now what had been the dramatic use of the comic 
when Shakespeare manifested in his three great plays, 
Much Ado about Nothing, As You Like It, and Twelfth 
Night, consummate power as a comic dramatist? We 
have already seen that the miracle plays, dealing with 
Biblical history, and the chronicle plays, dealing with 
legendary or veracious history that is not sacred, 
moved inevitably for one of their developments to the 
comedy of manners. That is, in representing the past 
in terms of the present, the miracle play gave the people, 
not shepherds of the East watching their flocks by 
night, but shepherds of the Conway and the Clyde; 
and the chronicle play gave, not the historical tatter- 
demalions who doubtless were in the army of Henry 
IV, but in Bardolph, Pistol, and even Falstaff himself, 
pictures from Eastcheap and the Bankside. At first 
these figures appear only in a scene, or in uncorrected 
scenes, but gradually there develops the sub-plot of 

[228] 



HIGH COMEDY 

a comedy of manners, none too well connected with the 
main plot. Comic characterization which ranged from 
exaggeration to restrained and convincing art was well 
understood in some plays long before Shakespeare ever 
wrote a line. The scene in the Chester miracle play of 
Noah and the Ark, in which Noah's wife refuses to 
embark unless her gossips may accompany her, illus- 
trates the fact that at a very early date selection and 
emphasis for comic effect were understood. 

Noah. Wife, come in : why standes thou there ? 
Thou art ever froward, I dare well sweare ; 
Come in, on Godes name ! halfe tyme it were, 
For feare lest that we drowne. 

Noah's wife. Yea, sir, set up your sail, 
And row forth with evil haile, 
For withouten fail 
I will not out of this towne ; 
But I have my gossips everyone, 
One foot further I will not gone : 
They shall not drown by St. John ! 
And I may save their life. 
But thou letten them into thy chest, 
Else row now wher thou list, 
And getten thee a new wife. 

Noah. Shem, lo ! thy mother is wrawe ! 
Such another I do not know. 

So Shem and Ham both try to persuade her, but in 
vain, and the cheerful gossips sing a drinking song as 
the tide comes in. Then Japhet tries his fortune, only 
to have Mrs. Noah say : — 

[ 229] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

That will I not for all your call, 
But I have my gossips all. 

Shem. In faith, mother, yet you shall, 
Whether thou wilt or not. 

Noah. Welcome, wife, into this boat. 

Wife. Have thou that for thy note. 

Noah. Ha, ha, marry this is hot ! 

How much comic action those last few lines connote ! 

The effect here certainly depends on the point of view 
of the dramatist, for to Mrs. Noah the experience was 
certainly not amusing, and to Noah himself the last 
lines clearly show that it was painful indeed. The 
comic effect comes, too, from the emphasis, for only 
that is stressed which would be sure to raise a laugh 
from an audience of the time. Think how gruesome, 
even tragic, the scene might have been made for just 
the same audience by emphasizing the pettiness of 
this squabble in the presence of the impending cata- 
clysm. 

The pre-Shakespearean drama used freely, and some- 
times with full intelligence, comic situation. It tended, 
however, as Gammer Gurton's Needle and the best plays 
of John Heywood prove, to turn to the exaggeration 
that means farce. In very many cases it could not, 
or it would not, so present its material that truth to 
life should keep it on the level of comedy. Rather, 
either wilfully, because of the sure response of the 
audience to farce, or inevitably because exaggeration 
is easier than the restraint of truth, situation in these 
plays ran to the farcical. 

[230] 




The Stage of the Red Bull Theatre. 

(This shows the curtains of the upper stage.) 



HIGH COMEDY 

Dramatic dialogue must first of all expound, making 
the story clear ; if it fails to do that, no amount of char- 
acterization or cleverness in itself will compensate. 
Had the drama not grasped this requisite thoroughly, 
it could never have developed as it had by 1585. In 
addition, even as dialogue expounds plot, it should 
expound it in character for speakers. How well comic 
characterizing phrase was grasped even as far back 
as the miracle plays is shown by the extract from the 
Chester plays and by that line of the Third Shepherd 
in the Towneley Christmas play as he and his two 
companions see the sheep-stealer, Mak, approaching: 
"Is he commen, then let ilk one look to his own." 
Comic dialogue in this pre-Shakespearean drama ranges 
from mere punning to actual wit, but for the most part 
it shows the same tendency toward exaggeration, 
toward farce, as do situation and characterization. 

By 1590 the forms which comedy will take by 1605- 
1610 may be discerned by him who looks back, though 
they were not clearly descried by the dramatists of 
that date. Farce, but rather as an element than as 
a form, is widespread. Even the comedy of humor 
was present, though, like the others, without individual 
form. A "humor" in comedy, as Congreve admirably 
defined it, is only " a singular and unavoidable manner 
of doing or saying anything peculiar and natural to 
one man only ; by which his speech and actions are dis- 
tinguished from those of other men. . . . Humor I 
take to be born with us, and so of a natural growth; 

[231] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

or else to be grafted into us, by some accidental change 
in the constitution or resolution of the internal habit 
of the body, by which it becomes, if I may so call it, 
naturalized." 1 Inasmuch as the comedy of manners 
must always rest on a just depicting of the humors 
of men and women, it, too, was present formlessly. 
This comedy of manners shoulders romance or history, 
as the play is Common Conditions with its rascally 
tinkers of the opening scene, or The Famous Victories 
of Henry V with its scenes of the Prince and his friends 
of the London slums. Romantic comedy shows, for 
instance, in the love story of this Common Condi- 
tions or in Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay. As I have 
already pointed out, in most of Lyly's comedies the 
love story was simply biding its time to break through 
its brilliant but stiff ornament that bore it down even 
like Tarpeia. Had Lyly thought rather of what his 
characters were than of what they said, he would have 
created high comedy. Under comedy as signifying 
only " humorous" characterization, we should in 
Lyly's plays be able to place only the sub-plots of 
his plays, which deal with his waggishly impudent 
pages and his adaptations of figures from the Latin 
comedy. His main plots show us, depending largely 
as they do for their effect on dialogue of a very man- 
nered sort, that there may be another or other elements 
in comedy besides the mere humorous portraiture 

1 Concerning Humour in Comedy. A Letter. Dramatic Works (1773), 
Vol. II, pp. 224, 227. 

[232] 



HIGH COMEDY 

which the comedy of manners rests on. The first 
additional element we recognize is, of course, dialogue. 
Lyly's work steadily illustrates the fact that both dram- 
atist and audience had awakened to the fact that dia- 
logue, in addition to its work in characterization and 
exposition, might give pleasure in and of itself for its 
ingenuity, its wit, and its beauty and style. There 
is recognition of this truth, as I pointed out in the first 
chapter of this book, in the work of Thomas Kyd also ; 
so that even before Shakespeare wrote there had ap- 
peared in the dramatic treatment of material empha- 
sized for its amusingness something besides comic 
situation and characterization, something besides dia- 
logue that both expounded and characterized clearly, 
namely, a dawning appreciation of the value in comedy 
of dialogue at the time considered witty or in accord 
with ephemeral standards of style. 

Before Shakespeare's day two evolutions were taking 
place in comedy, one very slowly during centuries, 
one rapidly between 1590 and 1605. Slowly, through 
a surer feeling for truth to life, greater ability in pre- 
senting it, and a growing appreciation of the value of 
literary restraint, farcical treatment of men and man- 
ners was changing to comedy of manners and to some- 
thing vaguely like romantic comedy. Very rapidly, 
in the neighborhood of 1600, Jonson and Middleton 
developed from this comic material the comedy of 
manners: Jonson, because of his tendency to empha- 
size one characteristic at the expense of all others, 

[233] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

kept closer to the exaggeration of farce than did 
Middleton, who painted broadly and impersonally. 
The slower development marks a differentiation of 
comic material ; the quicker development is in provid- 
ing forms for these differentiations. In the first evo- 
lution many men slowly intellectualize the low comedy 
of their fathers by bringing to it a sense of poetic 
beauty, a feeling for artistic restraint, and literary 
style. Through greater truth to life, an increasing 
sense of beauty and a developing perception of the 
value of the witty as contrasted with the merely 
humorous, low comedy by 1590 very nearly arrives at 
high comedy. 

But we call both the romantic comedy of Shake- 
speare and the realistic comedy of Congreve, for in- 
stance in The Way of the World, high comedy. Unless 
there is to be confusion, high comedy evidently needs 
defining. 

George Meredith, in that illuminating Essay on 
Comedy, which had the happy fortune to be born a 
classic, says that the test of true comedy is that it 
shall " awaken thoughtful laughter," and adds, " Be- 
lieve that idle, empty laughter is the most desirable of 
recreations, and significant comedy will seem pale and 
shallow in comparison." Confine those definitions to 
high comedy, which is what Mr. Meredith is really 
considering, and they are indisputable. But what 
does he mean by " thoughtful laughter"? That the 
laughter results solely from the thought which went 

[234] 



HIGH COMEDY 

into the design of the dramatist? Hardly, for, as 
I have shown, there must be thoughtful design in all 
dramatic composition, from farce to tragedy. Is it 
that thinking over the scene after its performance we 
realize its full comic import? Hardly, for no comedy 
would be a lasting success, the full effect of which came 
only when the public had left the theatre for some time. 
No, the thoughtfulness of the laughter must mean that 
the thought and the laugh are practically one, that 
some instantaneous appreciation by us of a contrast, 
a comparison, a relation, produces the laugh: "that 
we simply do not laugh idly." That is the chief point, 
that we do not laugh idly. Ask a child at the circus 
why he is convulsed, ask his much older, uneducated 
neighbor why he too is convulsed, when the clown 
by a backhanded blow, "accidentally on purpose," 
fells the immaculately dressed ringmaster, and neither 
of them can tell you anything except that it is "so 
funny." Had one asked even the more intelligent mem- 
bers of an Elizabethan audience why they found the an- 
tics of madmen or the demented unqualifiedly amusing, 
they could no more have told you than any American 
audience to-day can tell you why it finds mild drunken- 
ness theatrically so irresistible, and why, in a farce or 
comedy that has been hovering over the abyss of bore- 
dom, the single expletive "damn" is often enough to 
save the situation. Those are, of course, the simplest 
forms of unthinking laughter. We rise from them 
through better and better characterization, because 

[235] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

more and more incisive and subtle, to a point where the 
amusingness can exist only for him who can see com- 
parisons, relations, or contrasts between what is repre- 
sented on the stage and certain standards generally 
accepted, or clearly suggested by the dramatist. 

That is, if one can appreciate only low comedy, one 
will enjoy in Twelfth Night, in the story of Malvolio, 
only the practical joke played upon him at the insti- 
gation of Maria ; but if one have also the spirit of high 
comedy, one will get a keener and more delicate pleas- 
ure as one's thought recognizes steadily the delightful 
contrast between what Malvolio thinks himself, and 
what he is ; what he thinks the effect he is producing, 
and the effect he really produces on Olivia. Or again, 
a large part of our delight in the wooing of Beatrice by 
Benedick and her treatment of him comes in our sense 
of the contrast between what they think the situation 
is and our knowledge of what the plotting of Don Pedro, 
Claudio, and Leonato have made it. For him who sees 
this contrast neither in Twelfth Night nor in Much Ado 
about Nothing, — and such contrast reveals itself in 
some instant of thought-producing laughter, — one 
of the springs of delight in these two plays is dried. 
High comedy in contrast to low comedy rests then 
fundamentally on thoughtful appreciation contrasted 
with unthinking, spontaneous laughter. Low comedy 
rightly produces only the latter, and always verges 
on the exaggeration of farce. The comedy of manners 
is a link : it may be low and run into farce ; it may 

[236] 



HIGH COMEDY 

rise into high comedy ; and we shall often find comedies 
which range from low to high if they have, as Shake- 
speare's have, two or more strands of plot. That is, 
the comedy of manners is not properly a category, as 
are high and low comedy. Rather the term identifies 
a kind of material which, according to its treatment, 
may range from farce through low comedy to high 
comedy. We have seen, then, that the comic is de- 
termined by the point of view of the dramatist as well 
as by the emphasis he gives his material, and we have 
learned that for high comedy the emphasis is given to 
rouse, not thoughtless, but thoughtful, laughter. Can 
we not determine additional characteristics of high 
comedy ? 

What part in producing this thoughtful laughter do 
character, phrase, and story necessarily play? From 
the very definition thus far built up for high comedy 
evidently characterization of a high order is an essen- 
tial. In high comedy we deal not with the super- 
ficial aspects of character, not with mere typical acts 
such as Sir Toby Belch's drunkenness or Sir Andrew 
Aguecheek's cowardice, but with the complex moods 
of Rosalind, Viola, and Beatrice ; with the contradic- 
tions of Benedick rather than the simple emotions of 
Claudio ; with Orlando's lover's moods and Touchstone's 
fool's wisdom rather than with the feelings of Corin or 
William. Moreover, since we have already seen that 
dialogue may play an important part in comedy, and 
that dialogue when at its best must be not only a pleas- 

[ 237 ] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

lire in itself, but in character, every figure of any conse- 
quence in a high comedy must be perfectly understood 
or the dialogue cannot combine these two qualities. 
Has one any doubt of Shakespeare's perfect under- 
standing of all the intricacies of thought and feeling 
of Viola, Rosalind, and Beatrice ? Moreover, the later 
history of the English drama has shown us that what 
is recognized as high comedy may be slight in story 
but, if it is to have any permanent hold on the public, 
must be strong in characterization. Had I time to 
analyze here Sheridan's School for Scandal or Congreve's 
The Way of the World, I could show easily that it is 
upon characterization those two plays rest fundamen- 
tally for their appeal to the public, though the fusillade 
of wit so distracts our attention from the underlying 
characterization that we recognize its importance only 
on analysis. Congreve offers only just enough plot 
to provide a framework for his characterization and 
phrase. Sheridan, it is true, offers much more, but 
still far less than Shakespeare. 

But if the power of grasping and representing delicate 
and subtle shades of character is the first essential, 
phrase is the second. I say " phrase" intentionally 
rather than " dialogue," because there is in some of these 
high comedies, notably the Shakespearean, a charm 
that lies neither in the characterization nor the wit, but 
rather in the beauty of the phrase as phrase or the 
poetic content of the phrase as contrasted with its 
wit. 

G238] 



HIGH COMEDY 

Do not these relations of story, phrase, and charac- 
terization in high comedy show why we call it high? 
Surely this comedy makes the highest demands on the 
literary and interpretative powers of the dramatist. 
He who is clever only in weaving plot filled with char- 
acter types or with figures copied from simple originals 
cannot write it. He who lacks wit and skill in phrase 
is no master in it. On the other hand, this comedy 
demands an audience interested, even more than by 
plot, in fine shadings and contrasts of characterization, 
and possessing a sense of proportion and beauty. 
These facts point to a condition, apart from the drama- 
tist, essential for high comedy. Mr. Meredith has 
stated that since the usual subject of high comedy is 
love, and women must consequently be important in it, 
for the success of high comedy a state of society is 
essential in which women are at least not looked down 
upon by men, but are their companions. It seems to 
me not quite true that high comedy results only when 
the love story is central in it ; surely whatever makes 
us indulge in thoughtful laughter over our fellow human 
beings, whether the source of the comic lie in love or 
in other human relation or experience, is proper ma- 
terial. On the other hand, since love is the one com- 
mon experience almost equally interesting to all 
audiences, it must naturally be the chief subject of 
high comedy. Now the love story means depicting 
necessarily the subtler moods of women under finer 
feelings stirred in them by men. It must be clear 

[239] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

why not only an intelligent audience, but an audience 
with women in it, and cultivated women at that, is 
essential if high comedy is to flourish. 

What better time could there be for the appearance 
of high comedy than the closing years of the reign of 
Elizabeth, when the great queen had given her coun- 
try peace, when the drama had been fostered by her, 
when women like the Countess of Pembroke shared the 
literary enthusiasms of their brothers and friends? 
Moreover, the interest of the court in the drama as 
seen in the many performances at the royal palace and 
the houses of the nobility and in the attendance of 
men of fashion and university wits at the theatres, 
gave just the specially intelligent group in Shake- 
speare's audience which was needed if the more deli- 
cate appeal of high comedy was to be appreciated. 

To what extent do the essentials of high comedy 
appear in Much Ado about Nothing, As You Like It, 
and Twelfth Night, and what is Shakespeare's special 
contribution, if any, to the form? 

That Shakespeare's depicting of subtle and com- 
plex moods in his high comedies is masterly is univer- 
sally admitted. That this success rests on his perfect 
understanding of his dramatis persona? is as widely 
acknowledged. As we have seen, it was nothing new 
in 1598 to treat a romantic story with puppets, or even 
with well-drawn types, for the speakers. There had been 
some plays, and there were many thereafter, in which 
characters thoroughly convincing within the scene or 

[240 J 




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HIGH COMEDY 

the act appeared in a romantic setting. Greene, on the 
one hand, and Dekker, Heywood, and Beaumont and 
Fletcher, on the other, bear witness to that. What 
was unheard of in 1598, and what remained exceed- 
ingly rare thereafter, was any play in which, against 
a romantic background, subtle and complex moods 
of men, and especially of women, were so portrayed that 
the characters grew even as the audience watched the 
development of the play. Complex character, true to 
life, not within the scene or the act, but developing as 
the play advanced and able to endure scrutiny and 
analysis for the consistency of its drawing from start 
to finish, — this was one of Shakespeare's contributions 
to high comedy. But his mastery of his art by 1598 
enabled him to make this contribution to all of the 
dramatic forms in which he chose to work between that 
date and 1600. 

The success of these high comedies rests quite as 
much on the fact that Shakespeare, consciously or 
unconsciously, probably the latter, appealed in the 
main in his characterization to permanent rather than 
temporary interests of an audience. It has been 
pointed out that "men manifest their stage of culture 
in nothing more than in what they laugh at." The 
clown in the Elizabethan drama is a survival of an 
appeal to a response once sure, but by 1600 waning. 
The American of the French stage in such a play as 
UEtrangere of Dumas fils shows to-day by the lan- 
guid interest he rouses in a French audience, how 
* [ 241 ] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

rapidly figures drawn, not from life but in accord with 
prejudices or momentary interest of the public, will lose 
their effect. Shakespeare himself offers instances of 
this. There is a notable example in the scene of 
Twelfth Night in which the chained Malvolio begs for 
paper that he may write to his mistress of his miseries. 
To an Elizabethan that scene of torment by Sir Toby, 
Feste, and Maria was extremely amusing, and conse- 
quently those three are in the foreground and Malvolio 
is more heard than seen. But times have changed, 
and the scene is either boresome or somewhat repellent 
to-day. I have often seen it fall flat. I believe, there- 
fore, that Mr. Sothern is quite right in putting the tor- 
mentors at the back of the stage, and letting the audi- 
ence see as well as hear Malvolio. The change, by 
creating sympathy for him, undoubtedly does violence 
to the original intent of Shakespeare, but by bringing 
the scene into accord with the sympathies of a modern 
audience makes it carry. Possibly all the Sir Toby- 
Sir Andrew scenes, unless played with a restraint per- 
haps not Elizabethan, and none too common on our 
own stage to-day, are in danger of overreaching at 
present; but the main story appeals as much as or 
more than it originally did. And this is true of the 
whole of Much Ado about Nothing and As You Like It. 
The first reason for this permanency of interest is 
that Shakespeare does not deal in local types, nor even 
in English men and women. His people may be ex- 
patriated by translation, but they still remain so true 

[ 242 ] 



HIGH COMEDY 

to human nature that they delight strange audiences 
in foreign lands. No contrast could be greater than 
between his figures and Lyly's literary wraiths ap- 
pealing not merely to their own decade but to the 
Court set, and even to one group within that set. Or 
contrast Shakespeare's work in these high comedies with 
Ben Jonson's comedies of manners, and the danger of 
the appeal to interest in local characterization is clear. 
Jonson, so far as his observation, strongly affected as 
it was by his reading of classic comedy, would permit, 
drew with photographic accuracy the people he saw 
in the taverns, the theatres, and the streets of the Lon- 
don of 1600-1610. With him story went for little. 
Dialogue interested him most when it was anatomizing 
character, even if at times he spoke himself rather 
than as fitted the character in question. What re- 
suited? When, after a break of some years during 
which he was writing masques, he returned in 1620- 
1630 to writing plays, nobody would heed him. The 
people then wanted incident, story, more than charac- 
terization. He had no story of interest to tell, and he 
drew, as he had drawn ten or a dozen years before, 
humorous local figures. The people had lost their 
interest in such figures apart from plot, even as pos- 
terity has shown little interest in them except as 
pictures of the time. 

Shakespeare had grasped a truth once admirably 
phrased by Madame Riccoboni in a letter to Garrick. 
"The taste of all nations," she wrote, "accords on cer- 

[243 } 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

tain points: the natural, truth, sentiment, interest 
equally the Englishman, the Russian, the Turk. But 
wit, badinage, the quip, pleasantry, change in name 
as the climate changes. That which is lively, light, 
graceful, in one language, becomes cold, heavy, insipid, 
or gross, in another. Everywhere humor depends on 
nothing, and often that nothing is local." Let us 
be honest with ourselves. Do all the speeches in these 
high comedies whose intent is evidently amusing 
really delight us to-day? Of course not, but we enjoy 
what the foreigner enjoys in such speeches, the char- 
acter which comes out from behind them. They were 
like the masque of the Greek actor, put on to em- 
phasize, to intensify, the effect a speaker was to pro- 
duce. But the character behind was so truly, so 
finally drawn by Shakespeare that, even if special 
speeches have grown stale, our delight in Jaques, 
Beatrice, Rosalind, and Viola is abiding — be we 
Anglo-Saxon or Latin. Though the conditions in 
which a character may appear be unusual, Shake- 
speare finds the universal in the individual placed in 
those conditions. He does not stress the unusualness 
of the conditions; rather he relates them as closely 
as he can to our own experiences. This he does 
largely by painting for us not those details, those char- 
acteristics which mark off the figure from all other 
men, but rather his reaction as an individual on ex- 
periences, emotions, moods, common to all mankind. 
He does not deal in types, as The Lover of John 

[244] 



HIGH COMEDY 

Heywood's interlude, nor in the slab-sided figures of 
the Jonsonian humor comedy, nor in unusual manifes- 
tations of rare or extraordinary qualities as do Chap- 
man or Marlowe in their serious plays. Instead, he 
paints for us in individuals their manifestations of uni- 
versal or typical moods, emotions, and states of mind. 
Undoubtedly the prominence which Shakespeare 
gave the love story in his high comedies, as elsewhere 
in his plays, has much to do with their universal ap- 
peal. "All the world loves a lover" and always will. 
Now in the plays still extant which belong before 
1600, the love story is but one element of interest, 
or had been treated for the incident it offered rather 
than the love motif, or had been subordinated to false 
standards of literary expression. By 1600 it had 
been given in the English drama much the dominating 
position it has since held in our drama. Putting aside 
the decided probability that Shakespeare was the per- 
son most responsible for this new emphasis, for the 
matter cannot be settled with our scanty supply of 
plays written between 1590 and 1600, it remains true 
that no other plays written by 1600 combine so much 
emphasis on the love story with such delicacy of feel- 
ing and such idealism of tone. Nearly all the later 
dramatists make the love story the centre of their 
plays, but it usually has its sordid side, and in Marston 
it is passionate enough to be called modern. Nowhere 
else than in Shakespeare does one find physical passion 
so purified and idealized. Even as Shakespeare gives 

[245] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

the love story the greatest possible prominence, he 
frees it from its baser elements by skilful emphasis 
and elevated thought. On the side of characterization, 
then, Shakespeare's high comedies held many appeals 
to the public. The characterization in them is the 
equal of any the drama of any nation has to offer. 
With the love story as the central interest, something 
of which the public never tires, Shakespeare so em- 
phasizes in the individual what is of universal and per- 
manent appeal that his people surmount the barrier of 
a foreign language and withstand the passage of the 
decades. 

What also distinguishes Shakespeare's high comedy 
is his use of plot. As I have already said, later high 
comedy usually shows a small amount of plot as com- 
pared with characterization and dialogue for its own 
sake. Is not this natural? Since high comedy de- 
pends fundamentally on delicate strokes of charac- 
terization, and there is but the space of five acts for 
all this exposition, if we increase the difficulty of our 
characterization and at the same time expand our 
dialogue, must not plot suffer except in the hands of a 
master in dramatic proportioning? It is just here that 
Shakespeare once more shows how firmly ingrained 
now was his acquired sense of the value for his audi- 
ence of story. In not one of these three great plays 
has he been content with what a single source supplied 
him. For the love story of Rosalind, as provided him by 
Thomas Lodge in his novel Rosalynde, Euphues' Golden 

[246] 



HIGH COMEDY 

Legacie, he has, at the least, so much developed 
from bald hints Lodge's Jaques, Touchstone, the 
rustics with their love story, and the Foresters, that 
they seem his creations. Though Barnabe Rich seems 
in his Apolonius and Silla to have supplied him with 
the main story of Twelfth Night, he adds Malvolio and 
all the group headed by Sir Toby. In Much Ado he 
weaves three strands : the story of Hero and Claudio, 
to be found in Bandello, though not taken directly 
thence by Shakespeare ; the love making of Beatrice 
and Benedick, the exact source of which is not clear; 
and the character studies of Dogberry and Verges, 
evidently wholly Shakespeare's own. Note, too, that 
even here in high comedy he thinks it worth while to 
knit his work closely, for in Much Ado about Nothing, it 
is Dogberry and Verges who overhear the plotting 
of Conrade and Borachio, and so ultimately bring the 
news that clears Hero from her disgrace ; and it is the 
blow falling on Hero which makes Beatrice and Bene- 
dick drop their pretences and, in order to prove her 
innocence, come to an understanding. There again 
we have a knitting of the parts of the plot similar 
to that pointed out in The Merchant of Venice. In 
Twelfth Night, too, remember it is the duel forced 
upon Viola by Sir Toby that really brings about the 
denouement, since it is Sir Andrew's attack on Se- 
bastian, whom he mistakes for Viola, which finally 
brings brother and sister together. Lately it has been 
more than once reported that The School for Scandal 

[247] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

no longer draws well. Congreve admitted that in his 
own day his plays were really successful only with the 
few. Of course, in both cases this limited popularity 
can be partly accounted for by what has already been 
said of the special audience which high comedy re- 
quires, but has not the absence of an absorbing story 
something to do with the lack of permanent and wide- 
spread success for these two plays ? Some seventeenth- 
century verses tell us 

Let but Beatrice 
And Benedick be seene, loe in a trice, 
The Cockpit, Galleries, Boxes, all are full. 

Evidently the public thoroughly appreciated that 
play. Watch an audience to-day at any one of these 
three comedies. How masterly is their planning for 
the public ! Here is something for every one : he who 
cares most for story finds his satisfaction; he who 
delights in character may enjoy his fill; he who is 
pleased by witty and characterizing dialogue is not 
disappointed; and even he who loves poetry for its 
own sake is provided for. What wonder, when these 
plays also please the actor, because they are full of 
dramatic opportunity, that our public loves them to- 
day as well as did the public of the past ? 

In Love's Labour's Lost we saw Shakespeare led 
astray by ephemeral and false standards of style and 
wit, mistaking antithesis, alliteration, all the manner- 
isms of style of the moment, for real beauty of phrase, 

[248] 



HIGH COMEDY 

and even playing on words with the idea that this was 
wit. But in The Two Gentlemen of Verona he had 
already begun to understand that wit is not external 
in source but internal; that it is not general but in- 
dividual, the intellectual reaction of an original mind on 
an idea or situation. Speech rightly to be witty must 
first of all, then, be in character. Shakespeare came 
soon to realize, also, that scenes of wit for their own 
sake, like those of Navarre and his lords and the Prin- 
cess and her ladies, quickly weary; that it is safer to 
risk them only rarely, and to let a scene have the 
double value of interesting characterization through 
witty dialogue. Comparison of an extract from Lyly 
and some lines in Shakespeare treating an analogous 
idea will show the great superiority of the latter's 
matured method. 

Phillida. Have you ever a sister? 

Gallathea. If I had but one, my brother must needs have two; 
but I pray have you ever a one ? 

Phil. My father had but one daughter, and therefore I could have 
no sister. 

Gall. [Aside.] Ay me, he is as I am, for his speeches be as mine 
are. 

Phil. What shall I doe, either he is subtle or my sex simple. 

Here Lyly is thinking only of the complication itself 
and of his mannered phrase. Shakespeare, taking this 
complication, so handles it that the plot moves on, the 
speeches characterize, poetic feeling fills the little scene, 
and the thought is phrased in exquisite poetry. 

[249] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

Duke. Make no compare 

Between that love a woman can bear me, 
And that I owe Olivia. 

Viola. Ay, but I know, — 

Duke. What dost thou know ? 

Vio. Too well what love women to men may owe : 
In faith, they are as true of heart as we. 
My father had a daughter lov'd a man, 
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, 
I should your lordship. 

Duke. And what's her history ? 

Vio. A blank, my lord. She never told her love, — 
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, 
Feed on her damask cheek : she pin'd in thought : 
And, with a green and yellow melancholy, 
She sat like patience on a monument, 
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed ? 
We men may say more, swear more ; but, indeed, 
Our shows are more than will, for still we prove 
Much in our vows, but little in our love. 

Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy ? 

Vio. I am all the daughters of my father's house, 
And all the brothers too ; and yet I know not. — 
Sir, shall I to this lady ? 

This is dramatic literature, for here the dramatic 
moment is not clogged or destroyed, as often in Lyly 
and many another Elizabethan dramatist, by the very 
desire for literary beauty. Rather, the very beauty 
of the expression helps to clearer, and therefore swifter, 
presentation of the situation. This superiority in 
phrasing results chiefly, too, from Shakespeare's assured 
grasp on character. He does not look at a situation 
for itself, nor merely as an opportunity for phrase. He 
studies it primarily for what it may be made to reveal 

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HIGH COMEDY 

as to the characters involved. Entering into it com* 
pletely with each of these, he expresses their individual 
reaction on it. Of course, his perfect feeling for the 
values of words in producing emotion and beauty 
aids, but it is, in the last analysis, Shakespeare's 
profound interest in character which lifts him from 
the dramatic phrase-maker to the master of dramatic 
phrase. 

Nor does the effect of beauty produced by these 
three great comedies result wholly from the phrasing. 
It comes quite as much from the pervasive "sweetness 
and light." Reading these three plays, one recalls 
the statement of Maeterlinck: " Words are only a kind 
of mirror which reflects the beauty of all that sur- 
rounds it." Shakespeare has known how to put a 
certain uplift into his work. In the first place, his is 
the right attitude for the writer of comedy, whether 
high or low, and indispensable for the writer of high 
comedy, broad human sympathy, a readiness to 
believe in the good rather than the bad side of human 
nature. His, too, is so strong a sense of humor that 
he never loses his just sense of human values. Think 
how often the bad taste or misemphasis of an actor 
makes Sir Toby repellent. How delicate evidently 
must be the touches by which Shakespeare keeps free 
from the sordid, the base, the disgusting, in his material. 
Compare the story of Apolonius and Silla with the 
story of Olivia, Viola, and Sebastian, and at once 
the care is evident with which he excised the sordid, 

[251] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

the suggestive, and the salacious, substituting, for in- 
stance in Twelfth Night, such poetic scenes as the inter- 
view of Sebastian and Olivia. Steadily he elevates his 
material, steadily his outlook on life is one of serene 
enjoyment of the follies and the love entanglements of 
his characters. It is, indeed, the cheery optimism of 
these plays which in part gives them their permanent 
hold. Who reads Jonson — still more, who reads the 
judicial Middleton — as compared with Shakespeare? 
Middleton's studies of the guller and the gulled about 
the Inns of Court in 1600-1608 are remarkable, but 
in giving pleasure they are not comparable with these 
comedies which are not of London life or English life, 
but of the land of romance toward which humanity, 
tired and discouraged by its fitful artistic excursions 
into what is called "the real world/ 7 gladly returns 
from time to time like the child at nightfall for its 
"one story more." Just here is another secret of the 
permanent hold of these plays : they are our most per- 
fect specimens of dramatic story-telling for the children 
of a larger growth, which we all are in the last analysis. 
They raise no problems ; they sweeten our feeling tow- 
ard humanity; they lure us away to the restful land 
of romance. 

We have seen that by 1594 Shakespeare was success- 
ful as an adapter of farce and melodrama; that by 
1597 he was already masterly in his scenes of the com- 
edy-of-manners type and as a dramatic story-teller able 
to adapt his work to any audience. Already he had 

[ 252 ] 



HIGH COMEDY 

taught his dramatic and his literary instincts to work in 
accord. By 1600 he calls into being a new form in 
English drama, high comedy, summoning it from the 
misty region of Lyly's imagination where it was lurk- 
ing all unconscious of its mission. This form he 
stamped strongly with his own personality, not only 
in its genial attitude toward mankind and its witty 
and beautiful phrase, but also in its idealization of 
human passion. And all the three great comedies are 
marked by their clear and easily comprehended ex- 
position of complex moods in a complicated story, the 
whole transfused with beauty of thought and phrase. 
Moreover, this union of plot, characterization, dialogue, 
and beauty has not been equalled by any English com- 
edy since. 

High comedy must always be difficult ; it endeavors 
to popularize the intellectual, to bring the ordinary mind 
into touch with the subtle in life on its gayer side, 
and with the beautiful in dramatic art. What gave 
Shakespeare all this attainment in one of the two most 
difficult of dramatic forms, the other being tragedy? 
The toilsome acquirement we have been watching of 
the power to set more and more perfectly compre- 
hended character, even in its subtlest moods of gayety, 
in a story of absorbing interest woven from many 
strands. It resulted from trained interest in character, 
trained poetic power, perfect technique gained from 
training, and from an almost uncanny knowledge of 
human nature, again the result of patient training of an 

[253] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

originally keen sympathy guided by a maturing sense 
of humor. In ten years the growth from the inep- 
titude and the imitation of Love's Labour's Lost to the 
perfect accomplishment of As You Like It, Much Ado 
about Nothing, and Twelfth Night has been made. 
What remains for this master of dramatic technique, 
this creator of a new form in the drama of his day ? He 
has yet to study the graver side of life as closely as the 
lighter, to perceive and draw forth the drama in- 
herent in its subtlest moods. He has yet to lift melo- 
drama and chronicle play to the level of tragedy. 



254] 



CHAPTER VII 

TRAGEDY 

IN any attempt to formulate for ourselves Shake- 
speare's idea of tragedy, two things are absolutely 
necessary : First, we must distinguish clearly between 
two words often used carelessly and as if properly 
interchangeable, namely the adjective tragic and the 
noun tragedy. In the second place, here, more than 
anywhere else perhaps, and certainly more than any- 
where else except in the chronicle plays, one must 
endeavor primarily to judge Shakespeare's work not 
as a modern but as an Elizabethan. 

The importance of distinguishing between tragic 
and tragedy becomes clear the moment that I make 
the statement on which in large part this chapter will 
rest; namely, that, though tragic situation was con- 
stantly evident in the plays before Shakespeare's 
time, there was no real tragedy except in Marlowe. 
Anything mournful, cruel, calamitous, bloody is tragic 
in the adjectival sense of the word. For instance, that 
repellent scene of Titus Andronicus in which Lavinia 
appears tongueless and with bleeding stumps for 
hands, or that in which she writes in the sand, guiding 
the stick held between her teeth with her bloody stumps, 

[255] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

is tragic, but, as we have seen, Titus Andronicus is not 
a tragedy, but a melodrama. Accidents to people 
from the trolley cars are frequent enough and are often 
tragic, but in not all these cases is the maiming or the 
killing a tragedy. Of course, if the victim is some blind 
person, obliged because of limited means to make his 
way through the crowded streets of the city alone, and 
if his friends have marked, but he has been unwilling 
to admit, a growing deafness, then he accident par- 
takes of the nature of tragedy, for preceding condi- 
tions have cooperated to bring about a result inevitable 
unless some special providence supervises or intervenes. 
That is, as I have already implied repeatedly, tragedy 
is a sequence of incidents or episodes so presented as 
to emphasize with seriousness their causal relationship. 
Naturally, tragedy is slower in developing than farc^ 
or the low comedy that ultimately takes shape as the 
comedy of manners or of humors. It is always easier 
to photograph than to paint, for painting demands a 
trained judgment in selection and a knowledge of the 
laws of color required in photography, even nowa- 
days, only from those who are endeavoring to break 
down the boundaries between photography and paint- 
ing. Tragedy may very well be contemporaneous with 
high comedy. No matter how well these old writers in 
the miracle plays drew the farmers and shepherds of 
their day, the best of their accomplishment was far 
less difficult than to attempt to make clear the inevi- 
tableness of certain events in political history. They 

[256] 



TRAGEDY 

could duplicate from their own day some of the serious 
characters of Biblical history; they could present its 
tragic incident ; but they made little or no attempt to 
motivate from scene to scene/ The most wonderful 
of these old miracle plays, the so-called Brome Abra- 
ham and Isaac, was satisfied with showing in masterly 
fashion every shade of the interplay of emotions be- 
tween father and son, as the former struggled between 
his affection for Isaac and his duty to God, and the 
latter hesitated between unquestioning obedience and 
a child's dread of physical pain and the unseen knife. 
The motivation goes wholly into making convincing the 
immediate mood presented. The moralities of course 
hovered always, when at their best, on the confines of 
tragedy. Indeed, on a first reading, such a play as 
The Nice Wanton, in which we learn how Ishmael and 
Delilah pay the penalty of their bad bringing up, may 
appear a real tragedy. Constantly, throughout this 
morality, we are made to understand that the evil re- 
sults for the brother and sister spring from the slack- 
ness of the doting mother. In the recent performances 
of Everyman we beheld the tragic consequences for 
every man of a life such as the central figure led. 
These moralities, even if they deal with types, called, 
for instance, " Youth," "Idle Living," rather than 
with individuals, do try to drive home the significance 
of the actions seen. Whenever one of the authors says 
to his audience, "Pass your time as has my chief 
figure in idleness or riotous living and behold the 
s [ 257 ] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

disappointment and misery awaiting you," he is, at 
least, implying a great law of conduct. The fact is, 
the moralities may in a sense be called the Tragedy 
of Types. They have only to pass over to treating in 
historical or everyday situations the individual rather 
than the type, and real tragedy will be born. Yet for 
a form instinct with the spirit of tragedy, the morality 
was singularly resultless. The point is that the 
moralities were consciously tragic, consciously didactic, 
but only unconsciously tragedies. Moreover, plays 
replaced moralities because the people wearied of 
didacticism and wanted entertainment only. What 
tragedy there was in these moralities arose from their 
didacticism. Consequently, when their didacticism 
went, the glimmerings of tragedy went too. Instead, 
with the interest in Seneca and his bloody plays, with the 
coming of the romantic material provided by the floods 
of novelle coming to England from France and Italy, 
there ensued a frank revel in inadequately motivated 
emotion, in melodrama. 

If a reader will recall Titus Andronicus for a moment, 
he will see just what I mean by melodrama, the form 
that stops at nothing to gain its effect. Melodrama is 
not simply the crowding of one striking situation upon 
another, — the funeral of the sons of Andronicus, the 
seizing of Lavinia, the marriage of Tamora, the killing 
of Bassianus, the mutilation of Lavinia, the madness 
of Titus himself, — but the happening of incidents for 
reasons only to a slight extent set working early in the 

[258] 



TRAGEDY 

play, — the hatred of Tamora for Titus and the anger 
of Saturninus at both his brother and Titus. In fact 
the latter plays a very small part in the after results : it 
is the hatred of Tamora, which gives the events what 
tragic motivation they have. It is curious, however, 
that some of the incidents most fateful for the later 
development of the story come from the mere love of 
Aaron for evil for its own sake, and the unbridled pas- 
sions of the sons of Tamora. If all those later catas- 
trophes came directly or indirectly from Tamora's 
scheming for revenge, then we should have a tragedy. 
This right feeling for tragedy appears first in Mar- 
lowe's Tamburlaine. In Part I all the important 
events spring from the hero's lust for geographical 
conquest. Part II shows a struggle between an 
individual and his environment in the sense of the 
working of the unseen forces of nature which govern 
life and death. That is, he is the first man to look 
behind the individual as a portrait, though not the first 
to look behind the type, and he is the first to look 
behind the individual not for moralizing but as a means 
to convincing characterization. That is, even when 
Shakespeare was working in Richard III and the earlier 
form of Henry V, the English drama had begun to grasp 
the idea of tragedy — a sequence of serious episodes 
leading to a catastrophe and all causally related. 
Yet it was evident only in Marlowe, and with him was 
only just beginning to deal with ordinary human pas- 
sions rather than with extraordinary, such as Tam- 

[259] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

burlaine's greed of conquest, Faustus's mad love for 
all possible knowledge. The tragic in history had been 
understood for centuries, but except for Tamburlaine 
and Edward II, historical tragedy was in 1595 yet to be 
moulded from it. 

As I have already pointed out, I believe there is 
great danger in generalizing as to Shakespeare's plays 
unless we first determine, so far as we can, both his 
purpose in writing a particular play and his relation 
in it to his audience. Remember, too, what I have 
already pointed out, that the plays I have in mind in 
this chapter, Julius Ccesar, Hamlet, Macbeth, Lear, 
Othello, and Antony and Cleopatra 1 can perfectly well, 
so far as the material from which they are made is con- 
cerned, be classed roughly with the chronicle plays 
we have already considered. They all came from 
chronicles of one sort or another. The chronicle might 
be of British history or of Roman, it might be legen- 
dary or veracious, but except for the better educated 
in the audience — the smaller portion surely — there 
would be no distinction between the veracious and the 
legendary. The only distinction made by the audi- 
ence would be between the plays that treat of British 
history and those that treat the history of some other 
nation. How far can we be sure, then, that the public 

1 Timon, Pericles, Troilus and Cressida, Measure for Measure, and 
All's Well That Ends Well are excluded because probable collabora- 
tion in the first three, possible collaboration in the fourth, and the 
partial remaking in the fifth, make them more confusing than help- 
ful in such a discussion as this. 

[260] 




The Harvard Elizabethan Stage, with the Curtains Drawn 



TRAGEDY 

in general when they first came to see these so-called 
tragedies expected anything different from what they 
had already seen in the tragic chronicle plays of Shake- 
speare ? Remember that the play which preceded the 
Third Part of Henry VI was not, like Henry VI, called a 
chronicle play, but The True Tragedy of Richard Duke 
of York. Remember, too, that plays we now call 
tragedies, which were even so ranked in the folio of 
1623, were not always so characterized when they 
first appeared. The title-page of King Lear, for in- 
stance, in the first quarto reads: "M. William Shake- 
speare, his true Chronicle History, with the life and 
death of King Lear and his Two Daughters." That 
is, till after 1608-1610, at least, there was no accurately 
differentiated use of the words tragedy and chronicle 
play, and there seems to have been no popular appre- 
ciation of the difference between tragedy and melo- 
drama, for constantly we hear the Elizabethans speaking 
of plays as tragedies when they were merely forms of 
melodrama which verged on tragedy. 1 Titus Androni- 
cus itself appears in the folio of 1623 among the trage- 
dies. This, then, is the first point I want to empha- 
size: that it is doubtful whether the greater part of 
Shakespeare's audience, in seeing the tragedies I have 

1 See John Fletcher's wholly uncritical definition of comedy as a 
play ending pleasantly, and a tragedy as a play closing with deaths. 
Note, p. 223. Thomas Dekker, on the title-page of Old Fortunatus, 
which begins with the death of the titular figure, and ends with the 
death of Ampedo, describes it as a " pleasant comedie," because for 
the greater part its interest is light rather than serious. 

[261] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

in mind in this chapter, felt it was seeing anything 
whatever except specially interesting specimens of 
the chronicle plays which dealt not with English kings 
and nobles of relatively recent times, but of foreign 
lands or of a period so remote as almost to be mythical. 
That is, there was in the public mind of 1603-1608 no 
such sharp break as we feel between Shakespeare's 
chronicle plays and what posterity distinguishes as 
his tragedies. To my mind the great tragedies were 
for the public of their own day primarily not tragedies 
at all, but merely more masterly specimens of dramatic 
story-telling than the plays which had preceded them. 
I say "more masterly" in the sense used by the Eliza- 
bethan audience: they were better because they re- 
counted in absorbing and final fashion stories involving 
both the most intense and the most subtle emotions. 

Is not that just what we have a right to expect from 
Shakespeare after his development from Love's Labour's 
Lost to Much Ado about Nothing f Why should he feel, 
simply because he turned from comedy to serious work, 
that his public would be satisfied with less story than" 
he provided in the crowded plots of Much Ado and 
Twelfth Night? Must it not have become one of the 
premises of whatever theory of dramatic art he may 
have evolved by 1600 that under ordinary stage con- 
ditions, spare whatever else he might, he could not for 
an Elizabethan audience spare story? Recall the pains 
he took to crowd it even into that performance for a 
special occasion, A Midsummer Night's Dream. Could 

[ 262 ] 



TRAGEDY 

one think of denying that these tragedies, one and all 
from Julius Ccesar to Antony and Cleopatra, are 
jammed with incident and, as we should now expect, 
with incident so related as to be worthy the name of 
plot? If story was not the chief interest of his audi- 
ence in listening to plays, why was it that he lingered 
at the end of Romeo and Juliet to let the Friar tell the 
audience again just what it had already seen? That 
is much like the child who waters his lemonade when 
it gets low in the glass that he may prolong his pleas- 
ure. Note that also in Lear, not very far from the 
end, there is, technically speaking, a somewhat similar 
situation. Why should we have a scene in which 
Edgar tells Albany much that is already well known to 
us * unless Shakespeare felt that the public so loved 
story for its own sake that it would take great pleasure 
in seeing how all the unhappy strokes of fate seemed 
working to a happier ending. 

For myself, I feel for two reasons sure that for the 
general public these tragedies were primarily dramatic 
stories rather than tragedies. In the first place, I 
believe this because, if the next time that a reader 
attends a Shakespearean performance he will sit, not in 
the orchestra or in the first balcony, but in the cheap 
seats where many people are getting their first or 
their early impressions of Shakespeare with no critical 
training and no historical background, he will find 
that what they are watching and what they are en- 
1 Act. V, Sc. 3, 11. 180-221. 
[263] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

joying is not the characterization of Hamlet, of Lear, 
of Macbeth, or Othello, but the stories in which these 
men are the central figures. To them these plays are 
transcripts from an older life, but transcripts, as Miss 
Elizabeth McCracken has shown in a delightful essay 
on The Play and the Gallery, 1 of large meaning for 
them. And this is true, not because they feel them- 
selves to be possible Lears, Macbeths, or Hamlets, but 
because the situations and the incidents of the stories 
so grip their imaginations that they place themselves 
in them, deducing rules of conduct. Just here one 
cannot afford to forget what our return to the crude 
romantic fiction of these last ten years demonstrates; 
that the world in general finds its delight from fiction, 
not in character, but in story, not in coming to under- 
stand the character of him or her who did this or that, 
but in reading what was done. Can anything show 
this more clearly and finally than the romantic novel 
of to-day with characters who might easily be given 
type names, but which abounds in exciting incidents 
neatly woven into a compact plot. It is, broadly 
speaking, only the trained and critical part of an audi- 
ence which thinks more of characterization than story. 
Relatively, too, how small that part is ! 

My second reason for believing that to the Eliza- 
bethan public these tragedies were merely specially 
absorbing story-telling is the way in which this idea 
helps to solve the problem many modern critics find 
1 The Atlantic Monthly, 89 : 497-507. 
[264] 



TRAGEDY 

in Shakespeare's fourth act. These writers say that 
in Julius Ccesar, Macbeth, and Antony and Cleopatra, 
the fourth act seems to drag, clogging the movement 
of the play. As a result, there has been some inclina- 
tion to formulate for Shakespeare a rule of technique 
which aimed to reach the strongest scene of the play 
at the end of Act III and to allow a subsidence of emo- 
tion in Act IV. First of all, one must remember that 
all this talk of acts and scenes in Shakespeare's plays 
rests on a very insecure basis. Though Othello, Lear, 
and Macbeth are in the Folio divided into scenes as 
well as acts, Hamlet is not divided at all beyond the 
second scene of the second act, and Antony and Cleo- 
patra has no division except the first scene of the first 
act. 

Any one who has worked much on quarto Elizabethan 
plays needs no proof that in many cases the scenes were 
first marked off when the manuscript was prepared for 
the printer. The very absence, so evident in Eliza- 
bethan plays, of the modern effort to get a strong cli- 
max at the end of the act as marked, strengthens one's 
doubt whether the dramatists of Shakespeare's time 
had at all the same idea of an act that we have to-day. 
For them it was probably more a period of time than 
a literary unit. When it is easy to divide one of their 
plays into acts according to modern ideas, that is 
much more probably the result of their recognition of 
permanent laws governing dramatic exposition within 
the space of two and a half hours than because they 

[265] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

had our notion of an act. Before we try to formulate 
Shakespeare's weakness, according to present-day 
standards, in the fourth act of Macbeth and Julius 
Ccesar into a conscious method, we must remember this 
fact and another. 

Critics seem sometimes to forget for the moment 
that in the tragedies, from Julius Coesar to Antony and 
Cleopatra, Shakespeare was creating modern English 
tragedy, and that since he grew in all the other forms 
he attempted, he was probably not perfect in this at 
the start. We expect to-day to get up to our strong- 
est situation in the fourth act, working out the de- 
nouement in the fifth, or even, if we are very skilful, 
to hold our strongest complication for the fifth act, 
thereafter unravelling our plot with the utmost rapid- 
ity till the final curtain. We, however, are not path- 
breakers ; we tread a well-beaten road, — indeed, a 
region so well mapped that we may choose the way by 
which we will travel it. Shakespeare transformed a 
path which was nothing more than Marlowe's connect- 
ing of chance openings in the woods into a clearly 
marked way; he made melodrama and chronicle play 
into tragedy. But surely any man who creates does 
it through effort, experimentation, and even failure. 
Shakespeare comes up to a strong situation at the end 
or near the end of what we usually call his third act, 
and there faces an absolute necessity of dramatic com- 
position. He must set working at once the causes and 
conditions which are to bring about the denouement 

[266] 



TRAGEDY 

in the fifth act. In Hamlet, Lear, and Macbeth his 
fourth act serves just this purpose. The ideal work, 
technically, is that which we find in Othello. Here, 
even as we reach a high point of interest in the third 
act, we pass on immediately in the fourth act to more 
striking scenes, which in turn lead to the fifth act. 
But if a dramatist has not gained complete control of 
the technique of a difficult form, tragedy, particularly 
in treating subjects far more difficult than those at- 
tempted by any of his contemporaries, of course his 
fourth act may seem to drag for him who cares more 
for characterization than for story, and who applies 
the standards of modern drama. In Othello it is true 
that we pass instantly from the handkerchief compli- 
cation at the end of the third act to the development 
of that complication in the fourth act. That is just 
why the play seems so swift, so climactic, in a word so 
modern in its treatment. It should be noted, however, 
that Othello, like most modern tragedies, has a single 
plot and but one group of figures. That resemblance is 
significant. 

If a dramatist's plot, as was the case in most of 
Shakespeare's tragedies, is woven of many strands, 
and he has just brought the story of Lear or Ham- 
let to a fine climax in Act III, he must necessarily 
give immediate attention in Act IV to Ophelia 
or to Edmund and Edgar. It is much easier to get 
climax, a swift and unbroken movement, in manipulat- 
ing a plot of a single interest than with a complicated 

[267] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

plot. Moreover, urged on by the demand of our pub- 
lic for such movement, we have studied the art of 
swift, climactic exposition. Had Shakespeare's audi- 
ence cared, above all else, for the characterization of 
Macbeth, they would have found the fourth act poor; 
but caring primarily for the complicated story, they 
found it far from dull. 

My own feeling is that common sense as applied to 
this matter of third act and fourth act in Shakespeare 
will show that he had no rule for reaching his strongest 
scene in Act III and no scheme for allowing a subsi- 
dence of emotion in Act IV, but that he produced in 
Julius Ccesar a fourth act probably not entirely suc- 
cessful even in its own day; in Macbeth a, fourth act 
certainly unsatisfactory to-day, but in 1600-1610 as 
effective as, I am sure, were the fourth acts of Lear, 
Hamlet, and Antony and Cleopatra; and in Othello 
wrote a fourth act perfect for all time. 

First of all, let us make sure whether our approach 
to these tragedies is that of the Elizabethans. Have 
we not grown used to seeing some distinguished actor 
or actress emphasize a particular character in one of 
them with such interpretative art that the play hence- 
forth stands in our minds as first of all a great study 
in human passion or desire ? That surely is what has 
made Professor Bradley, the most interesting of our 
recent writers on Shakespeare's dramatic art, say : 
"One reason why the end of The Merchant of Venice 
fails to satisfy us is that Shylock is a tragic character 

[268] 



TRAGEDY 

and that we cannot believe in his accepting his defeat 
and the conditions imposed on him. This was a case 
where Shakespeare's imagination ran away with him, 
so that he drew a figure with which the destined pleas- 
ant ending would not harmonize." Could anything 
mark more clearly a judgment affected by such presen- 
tation of Shylock as Sir Henry Irving's? Shake- 
speare run away with in a play plotted with the utmost 
ingenuity and skill, a play in which the salacious, per- 
meating in the original, is painstakingly excluded ! 
Surely not. 

Suppose one's interest in The Merchant of Venice 
chances to be quite as much in the love-story of Bas- 
sanio and Portia as in Shylock, would one then worry 
about Shylock after his defeat? I have shown that 
it is just this love-story which Shakespeare makes 
the unifying thread for the play. I purposely classed 
The Merchant of Venice with the plays of story, for I 
believe it to have been written not as the play of An- 
tonio, of Shylock, of Portia, or of any individual in 
its list of characters, but as a very dramatic love- 
story made possible by the unstinted friendship of a 
merchant of Venice. Surely so skilled a playwright 
did not name his plays idly. 

Apply this idea that the tragedies were to the Eliza- 
bethans primarily stories on the stage, not above all 
else characterization, to the often-heard criticism that 
Shakespeare reaches his real climax in the third act, 
letting interest fall off in the fourth, or only keeping 

[269] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

it steady till the fifth act. Even those who make 
this criticism admit that the interest does increase in 
Othello, and it is hard to see how they can effectively 
attack the fourth act of Lear with its madness of Lear 
and the reunion with Cordelia. They point out, 
however, that in the fourth act of Hamlet the Prince 
is absent during the greater part, only appearing in 
one or two brief early scenes, in which he baffles those 
who would talk to him of the murder of Polonius and 
makes clear that he is leaving for England. The 
greater part of the act is given to the madness of 
Ophelia. These critics say, also, that the fourth act 
of Julius Ccesar is made up of three scenes which, though 
interesting in themselves, give a broken effect to the 
act and are in decided contrast to the excitement at 
the close of Act III, when the people are crying, under 
the stimulus of Antony's speech, for revenge on the 
murderers of Caesar. No one, certainly, in reading the 
fourth act of Antony and Cleopatra, can fail to see the 
scrappiness of the fifteen scenes which make it ; and 
in Macbeth it is quite true that in the fourth act Mac- 
beth appears only in the scene of the second interview 
with the witches, and rather as a part of the scene than 
dominating it. The rest of the act is given up to the 
murder of Lady Macduff and her child and the inter- 
view in England between Malcolm and Macduff. 
After the powerful scene of Macbeth and the ghost of 
Banquo, near the end of Act III, this act does seem 
tame. But let us approach these plays in a different 

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TRAGEDY 

mood. First of all, we are Elizabethans seeing them 
on a stage which allows the scenes to follow one an- 
other almost instantly. They have not, therefore, the 
effect of detached and separate pictures, but rather, 
instantly following one another, make us, as in An- 
tony and Cleopatra, swiftly understand, as we watch 
Antony under many different conditions, his gnawing 
shame for his cowardice at Actium, or give us speedily 
and vividly bits of information which we must compre- 
hend if the events of the fifth act are to be clear to us. 
Remember, too, that for the audience these plays are 
still chronicle plays, and to it the chronicle play, even 
in Henry IV, apart from the comic figures, meant 
incidents of historic truth or approximate truth related, 
if at all, by some one figure passing through most of 
them and affecting, or affected by, the others. 

What makes that fourth act of Julius Ccesar ineffec- 
tive to-day, is what may have made it ineffective in its 
own day, that just when we have been wrought up to 
the keenest interest in what the mob will do to the 
murderers of Caesar, we are asked to let that pass for 
good and all. Instead, we are given two short scenes 
which merely prepare for the fighting in the fifth act, 
and a long scene of the quarrel between Cassius and 
Brutus, delightful in itself, but purely episodic. It does 
bring out the sensitiveness and the underlying sweet- 
ness of Brutus, it does count in characterization; but 
it does not move the story toward its close, make a 
dramatic climax after Act III, or in any way fulfil 

[271] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

the exciting promises of that third act. The fact is, 
of course, that from the moment the fourth act begins, 
the play lacks the unifying influence of Caesar, and we 
are forced to make one of those awkward changes of 
interest midway in a play which are usually fatal to 
any unity of effect. For whether we like Caesar or 
not, the first three acts tell his story rather than that 
of Brutus, and the last three acts belong to Brutus more 
than to any other character. 

In Macbeth to-day we greatly miss the central figure 
in two of the three scenes of the fourth act, for it has 
become for us primarily a play of character. More- 
over, in the second meeting with the witches, hearing 
again what we think we heard more effectively earlier, 
we feel as if the play, midway, were starting over again. 
But call Macbeth, not a study in character or in two 
characters, not a tragedy showing the deteriorating 
effect of crime and the retribution that inevitably fol- 
lows, but the " Story of Macbeth/' as Richard II and 
King John were the stories of those kings, and it is 
clear that, of course, the fourth act must treat the 
second interview with the witches, the murder of the 
child of Macduff, and the scene between Macduff and 
Malcolm^ Those incidents were in the old chronicle ; 
they were essential parts of the story of Macbeth. Why 
leave them out any more than certain of the main 
incidents in the story of Richard II, Henry VI, or 
Henry VIII? Consider, however, the bearing on this 
question of the suspicion that back of some of these 

[272] 



TRAGEDY 

plays lay other plays on the same subjects. In that 
case there were two good reasons why Shakespeare 
should embody in his work some scenes that we to-day 
in a character-study, but not in a play primarily of story, 
might omit or subordinate : namely, that the audience 
had liked those scenes in the past ; and above all, be- 
cause, as Professor Campbell has well said, " Whatever 
is believed to have happened, however strange, is ac- 
cepted as possible." To the less-trained Elizabethan 
mind, to have seen something acted in a play called 
a chronicle play was equivalent to attestation of its 
truth. They had duly inherited the attitude of the 
priest in Warwickshire generations before, who, preach- 
ing on the articles of the creed, said to his congrega- 
tion, feeling sure that the performances by guilds at 
Coventry of a play on the creed were well known 
to his audience, " These articles ye be bound to be- 
lieve, for they be true and of authority, and if you 
believe not me, then for the more surety and sufficient 
authority go your ways to Coventry, and there ye 
shall see them all played in Corpus Christi Plays." 
Considering some of the improbabilities in Hamlet, 
Macbeth, and Lear, one understands that inevitably 
parts of these earlier dramatic presentations must be 
seen in any revision or fresh dramatization of the story. 
It is again the situation Shakespeare faced in making 
over the two Titus stories. No matter how scrappy 
the fourth acts of Macbeth and Julius Ccesar, can we 
deny their theatrical effectiveness for an uncritical 
T [ 273 ] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

audience or their value as illustrative material — the 
murder of Lady Macduff, the second meeting of Mac- 
beth with the witches, the quarrel between Brutus 
and Cassius ? Certainly not. And what for an Eliza- 
bethan audience was true of the fourth act of Mac- 
beth, must have been true of the fourth act in Lear 
and Hamlet; that is, an Elizabethan audience, as 
long as in the space of two hours and a half an interest- 
ing story revealed itself in interesting scenes, did not 
prefer characterization to incident, did not bother 
itself at all about act divisions, and worried neither 
itself nor the dramatist over climactic movement, but 
was content to let the story double back on itself or 
even offer an excursus if the dramatist so willed. But 
be the scene essential or an excursus, it must be in- 
teresting. 

My own belief is, that certainly not till Shakespeare 
had written most of his tragedies, did he have any 
theory of tragedy whatever, but rather that his trage- 
dies are a perfectly natural and normal development 
from the serious side of the chronicle plays, just as we 
have seen that his high comedies were a normal devel- 
opment from the work of Lyly on the one hand, and 
on the other the chronicle plays on their lighter side. 
In the first place, to-day, how much thinking about 
theories of tragedy do dramatists busy themselves with 
before they write ? They see or hear something which 
suggests a plot to them, and they fall to working, re- 
working, and moulding it for presentation on a stage 

[274] 



TRAGEDY 

they know to a public they understand. For them 
their work resolves itself into problems of characteriza- 
tion, of structure, and, perhaps, of interesting presenta- 
tion to their well-known audience of essentially un- 
dramatic states of mind. Now and again, as they face 
this or that problem, they may get a suggestion from 
the practice of Shakespeare or somebody else in the 
past, but they are not guided in their work by definitely 
formulated theories of tragedy. Entering their situa- 
tions through their characters, or discerning clearly 
the characters essential to the situations originally in 
mind, the best dramatists are unsatisfied till they un- 
derstand these characters, not only within the scene, 
but as developing or disintegrating from the beginning 
to the end of the play. Moreover, they are unsatisfied 
till they know, at least, the chief characters in their 
relations to the other people of the play. Given all 
that grasp of character, and it is hard, at least, not 
to stumble on some underlying law of conduct. Stum- 
bled upon, it forthwith unifies the hitherto seemingly 
scattered tragic incident into tragedy. This statement 
is, I believe, borne out by the fact that the play, before 
1600, in which Shakespeare goes deepest into life on its 
serious side, is, except in one detail, perfect tragedy. I 
mean, of course, Romeo and Juliet. At the moment 
when it is necessary that Romeo shall have news that 
Juliet is waiting for him in the tomb of her fathers, 
the swift, relentless logic of the play breaks down. 
Thus far everything that has happened has been an 

[275] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

inevitable consequence of a secret marriage between the 
son and the daughter of two houses at deadly feud. 
Grant Tybalt's state of mind when Romeo and Juliet 
first meet, and that first meeting must sooner or later 
lead to bloodshed and tragic consequences. We have 
seen, too, how carefully Shakespeare has motivated 
Romeo's relation to the killing of Tybalt so that his 
banishment, granted the earlier scenes, comes as some- 
thing well-nigh inevitable. But what is it which pre- 
vents Romeo from getting the news that his wife is 
merely stupefied, not dead? Merely a device of the 
dramatist ; there is no inevitableness in this whatever. 
Friar John, sent to Mantua with the letter from Friar 
Laurence, seeks a fellow-monk as companion, only to 
find himself in a plague-stricken house, whence the 
authorities will not allow him to come out till Romeo, 
warned by his servant, Balthasar, of the death of Juliet, 
has returned to Verona to die. That turn in the play 
is at the will of the dramatist, is melodrama, and it 
breaks the chain of circumstance necessary for perfect 
tragedy. Grant that, as Professor Bradley skilfully 
argues, such blind strokes of chance do occur, is it not 
likely that had Shakespeare been developing his ma- 
terial in accord with any theory of tragedy, he would 
have seen to it that the march of events was as thor- 
oughly motivated here as elsewhere in his work of the 
same date ? Conceive that, entirely unthinking of trag- 
edy as anything but a serious play ending in death, he 
was absorbed in depicting with perfect understanding 

[276] 



TRAGEDY 

the figures he found in his original, and in setting them 
in a dramatic version of compelling interest, and it is 
clear that the flaw in the logic of events occasioned by 
the detail as to Friar John would not give him a mo- 
ment's pause. 

Surely by 1600, when Shakespeare had gone farther 
than any of his contemporaries in farce comedy and 
high comedy, and fully as far in chronicle history and 
melodrama, he must have felt free simply to give him- 
self to his desire to understand complicated human 
nature in intense situations and to working out the 
problems of dramatic presentation it offered. That 
is exactly what I believe he did, given either by the 
mere process of maturing with the years a deeper in- 
sight into human nature or sobered and matured by 
circumstances in his own life or about him. After all, 
there was no real break between his chronicle plays, 
strictly speaking, and his tragedies. The two parts of 
Henry IV belong in 1597 and 1598, the making over 
of Henry V falls in 1599, and Julius Ccesar belongs in 
1600 or 1601. We have had evidence that even as 
the chronicle plays developed, Shakespeare's interest 
in prince or noble as human being had come to super- 
sede his interest in him as king or ruler. Harry Hot- 
spur is after all, next to Falstaff, the sympathetic figure 
in the First Part of Henry IV, and the scenes in which 
he is best depicted show him least as the historical 
figure, most as the man. After all, have we not here 
the real underlying difference between the tragedies 

[277] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

and the chronicle plays ? It would have been possible, 
of course, to write a play on the reign of Lear ; Shake- 
speare chose to make his whole play turn on what 
happened after the abdication of power. It is as if in 
Richard II he began the play just as Richard resigns 
his crown to Bolingbroke, and then act by act showed 
the many humiliations for Richard resulting there- 
from. In the tragedies the dramatist has broken 
away from history as history, and uses it even as he 
would the common experience of everyday life in the 
comedy of manners, simply as so much illustrative 
material by which to make clear the character he is 
expounding. That is, in the tragedies, history past 
and present, facts and fiction, have all been fused for 
Shakespeare into possible material for studies of char- 
acter, and what he is interested in is expounding cir- 
cumstance in terms of character. I am almost willing 
to say that had any Elizabethan asked him what 
his tragedies meant, he would have phrased his answer 
in something equivalent to this, u To expound cir- 
cumstance in terms of character." Nor is he any 
longer connecting his scenes merely by the fact that 
some one figure moves through them, produces them, 
or is affected by them ; but character has become the 
prime subject of study. So far as the insistent de- 
mand of his public for story will permit, his scenes 
are but carefully chosen mirrors, indices, of character. 
Perceiving certain truths of conduct behind individuals 
in fictitious or historical circumstance, he sets himself 

[278] 



TRAGEDY 

to recreate for us the person whom he sees so that the 
meaning he has for Shakespeare shall be equally clear 
for us. That is, the audience was interested in story ; 
Shakespeare had become primarily interested in char- 
acter; and just in that contrast lay the chief technical 
problem he must solve in the composition of his trage- 
dies. Character is most easily expounded by analysis, 
description, and monologue, but not even the Eliza- 
bethans would stand page after page of monologue. 
Description must be sparingly used, and the audience 
must see not the analysis, but rather in action the re- 
sults of it. That is, the characterization must be set 
in an illustrative story of strong dramatic action. In- 
deed, this group of tragedies shows Shakespeare's 
gradual attainment of the power successfully to serve 
two masters at once. By crowding his plays with story, 
he strove to keep his audience attentive even as his 
scenes developed states of mind in some central figure 
or figures. And those states of mind he pictured by 
action. 

Once more, also, as in the high comedies, he makes 
in the same play more than one appeal to his public. 
In these tragedies if we want story, here it is ; if we 
want characterization, we find it; nor do we find un- 
relieved tragedy, but tragedy is lightened by comic 
contrast ; and if we seek poetic beauty, the plays are 
rich in it. He who wishes to know how a dramatist 
may write what he wants and at the same time provide 
what is sure to hold the public attentive should study 

[279] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

these tragedies. In them an analysis of character so 
minute that it tends to become undramatic is set in 
story so full of illustrative incident that the public of 
Shakespeare's day, as I have already said, probably 
considered these plays perfect pieces of story-telling. 
That we do not find some of them, such as Julius 
Ccesar and Macbeth, wholly flawless does not prove 
that they are failures, but merely, in Julius Ccesar, 
that no difficult task is usually accomplished at the first 
attempt, and, in Macbeth, that to-day the more critical 
are so much more interested in character than story 
as to resent the presence of certain scenes which, while 
they round out the story, distract attention from 
the central figure. The difference means that had 
Shakespeare written for the more critical of our public 
to-day he would have had a much easier task than the 
Elizabethans allowed him in working out the charac- 
terization which primarily interested him. 

Nor does it seem to me likely that Shakespeare ever 
evolved any detailed theory of tragedy. After all, 
the most richly creative minds leave the formulation 
of their practice to the men who glean after them. It 
is certainly curious that repeated efforts to phrase such 
a theory for Shakespeare seem to have been futile. 
They point, for instance, to the fact that all these trag- 
edies deal with people of high estate, that they all in- 
volve a clash of wills of some kind, or that it is ques- 
tionable whether any idea of morality entered into 
Shakespeare's tragic purpose. But all that does not 

[280] 





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TRAGEDY 

really differentiate Shakespeare. The first clause is 
axiomatic for all except the most modern tragedy ; the 
second is but one of the broadest of the definitions of 
tragedy; the third simply raises the eternal question 
whether art may or must be moral. When any 
attempt is made to distinguish between Shakespearean 
tragedy and the tragedy of the Greeks, one finds critics 
indulging in large generalizations or shading off into 
vagueness. The fact is, in a sense Macbeth is Greek, 
if what we mean by Greek is saying that tragedy is the 
fulfilling, struggle though the individual may, of a 
blind fate. For does not the whole tragedy of Mac- 
beth depend upon the fact that the messages of the 
witches fulfil themselves relentlessly in spite of all 
the scheming and the crime with which Macbeth tries 
either to thwart them or to force on them his own 
interpretation? Surely Macbeth is not exactly our 
present-day idea of tragedy. On the other hand, it is 
the struggle between a man's temperament and his 
environment which one sees in Hamlet. Possibly that 
classifies Lear. But can we perfectly place Julius 
Ccesar as a tragedy of fate or of the struggle between 
the individual and his environment ? Brutus perhaps 
shows the latter, not Caesar. The chief interest of the 
play seems to me, apart from its admirable characteri- 
zation, that it shows the chronicle play resolving itself 
into tragedy by means of emphasis on the essentially 
human side of the characters involved. Is it easy to 
find in the early part of the play the tragic causes 

[281] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

which render necessary all the later catastrophes ? Is 
it not a play unlike either Richard III or Henry V 
on the one hand, since Julius Caesar dies in the third 
act and Brutus by no means dominates all the acts, and 
on the other, unlike Hamlet or even Antony and Cleo- 
patra, which after all, so far as the dramatist is con- 
cerned, primarily exist to show and explain the moods 
of a main figure ? Is it not true that in the loose coor- 
dinating of its scenes, all of which are, however, illus- 
trative of the conspiracy against Caesar, its rise, its 
height, and its failure, we look back to the earliest forms 
of the chronicle play, even as in such episodic scenes 
as the quarrel between Brutus and Cassius we fore- 
shadow the subtle characterization of the later trage- 
dies? It is a natural and an easy transition for the 
public to tragedy from the chronicle play. But just 
how are Lear, Othello, and Antony and Cleopatra to be 
classed? In these is no blind edict of fate working 
itself out, as was the case in Macbeth; nor is one quite 
content to say that each is a struggle between a man's 
temperament and his environment. For tragedy in 
the sense in which we have been using it, the disas- 
trous results in Othello should come because we see in 
action the truth of the warning of the father of Des- 
demona to Othello, "She has deceived her father 
and may thee." But Desdemona is innocent enough, 
and the marriage would not have resulted badly had 
there been no Iago. The tragedy here arises not from 
a temperament struggling against its environment or 

[282] 



TRAGEDY 

against a blind decree of fate, but in a struggle of 
temperaments. Were there no Iago to plot and plan 
and lie, whence would come the tragedy in Othello? 
Were there no Goneril and Regan, where would be 
the tragedy of Lear? And the whole tragedy of 
Antony and Cleopatra lies in the completeness of Cleo- 
patra's benumbing control over Antony. But is all 
this more than saying that Shakespeare discovered all 
the sources of tragic story rather than assumed or in- 
sisted that all tragedy flows from one fountain head? 
Tragedy involves a struggle, a clash of wills. We 
may have the human being in clash and conflict with 
the consequences of some event in which he had no part 
and for which he was in no way responsible. The 
Greeks called that fate; we call that the tragedy of 
heredity. The individual may be in conflict with the 
will of the community ; that is what we have in Ib- 
sen's Enemy of the People. The individual may be 
torn by the conflict of his own emotions, the warring 
within himself of idealism and brutishness ; or, he may 
be partly torn by this and partly by the clash between 
his own desires and the will of the community. We 
see both in Hamlet. Or the conflict may come between 
two temperaments which cannot be brought together 
without baleful influences for one or both. That we 
have in Antony and Cleopatra and Othello. Beyond 
these I know no source for tragedy. In other words, 
Shakespeare's use of tragic material is inclusive, as 
might be the case with a man who does not start with 

[ 283 ] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

a definite theory of tragedy and thus develop one 
source only. Deeply and sympathetically interested in 
human nature and increasingly attracted by the alluring 
problems in characterization which tragic material 
offered, Shakespeare devoted himself for a series of 
years to presenting whatever tragic story offered him 
a particularly subtle and consequently attractive prob- 
lem in characterization. Naturally he used now this 
source of tragedy, now that, till he exhausted all. 

Is it likely, when the problems raised are so different, 
the sources of tragedy used so contrasted, that it will 
be possible to formulate a satisfactory theory of Shake- 
spearean tragedy ? I think not. I doubt if it troubled 
Shakespeare at all whether his public heard of these 
plays as tragedies, chronicle plays, or merely as plays. 
What interested him was that the plays should keep 
his audience so attentive from start to finish by a 
story full of interesting incident that the character- 
study he wished to make could clearly and convincingly 
reveal itself. Each new play was to him a fresh prob- 
lem to be separately conquered, though of course every 
preceding conquest made his judgment surer and his 
hand firmer. Into the characterization he put all 
that experience and sympathy had given him in knowl- 
edge of the human heart and all the philosophy his 
observation of life had brought him. He clothed his 
plays, too, in poetry of constantly increasing com- 
pactness, connotativeness, and beauty. That by which, 
above all, he made his plays carry for the great general 

[284] 



TRAGEDY 

public was what in Love's Labour's Lost and The Two 
Gentlemen of Verona he did not at all understand; 
what he failed to attain in the pure chronicle play as 
long as he was hampered by his sense of fact ; but what 
he depended on in his high comedies, namely, plot. 
Through this deft plotting he was able to present to 
the public of 1601-1608 plays that, so far as genuine 
tragedy is concerned, used all its sources. All, too, he 
used successfully. Since his day, tragedy has but 
used the same sources, fitting its material to its special 
audience and stage conditions. Shakespeare is the 
first modern master of tragedy. 



[285] 



CHAPTER VIII 

LATE EXPERIMENTATION 

THE high comedies and the tragedies of Shake- 
speare give us in perfect union, story ; charac- 
terization, and poetry of phrase and informing spirit. 
This perfection of accomplishment, we have seen, 
rests on minute care for the technique of the drama, 
and in turn this care for technique was called into 
being by Shakespeare's desire to fulfil at one and 
the same time his own wishes as to characterization 
and the wish of the audience for story. These facts 
must not be forgotten in any consideration of Corio- 
lanus, usually assigned to 1609 ; Cymbeline, generally 
assigned to 1609-1611; The Winter's Tale, 1610-1611; 
and The Tempest, 1611. In considering these plays 
in relation to their immediate predecessors, one is 
constantly puzzled, and sometimes fairly baffled, by 
the differences. 

What was the mood, for instance, in which Corio- 
lanus was written? I might have emphasized earlier, 
had space permitted, the increasing compactness 
between 1598 and 1608 of Shakespeare's expression, 
but why should a man as thoughtful as he heretofore 
of his audience, so far forget it in this play as often 

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to write without lucidity and in phrases extremely 
difficult to deliver? Dialogue for the stage, as Mrs. 
Craigie has pointed out in the preface to The Am- 
bassador , must always "show consideration for the 
speaking voice." It matters not if the speech have 
imagination, interest, charm; it is not dramatically 
perfect unless it be emotional rather than intellectual. 
Now who could have known this better than the 
Shakespeare of the high comedies and the great 
tragedies? Yet, listen to this from Menenius telling 
to the rabble the fable of the belly and the other 
members. 

I will tell you, 
If you'll bestow a small (of what you have little) 
Patience awhile, you'll hear the bellies answer. 

Or why does Coriolanus, who at times is so simple 
as to be final in phrase, utter such Browningesque 
lines as the fourth and the fifth of the following? 

Let them pull all about mine ears : present me 
Death on the wheel, or at wild horses' heels; 
Or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock, 
That the precipitation might down stretch 
Below the beam of sight, yet will I still 
Be thus to them. 

It is in this same play, too, that Shakespeare clouds 
a dramatic effect by a phrase perfect in characteriza- 
tion. Coriolanus (I, 9) has just returned to the 
main army after his successful entrance into Corioli. 
Wearied with the heat of battle, impatient of the 

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DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

praises of all about him, he has only one request to 
make, — that a poor man of the town who used him 
kindly may not be kept prisoner. One expects the 
scene to end, as for mere dramatic effectiveness it 
should, with the naming of his benefactor by Cori- 
olanus and the exit of some messenger to release 
the captive. Coriolanus says: 

I that now 
Refused most princely gifts, am bound to beg 
Of my lord general. 

Cominius. Take it : 'tis yours. — What is it ? 

Coriolanus. I sometime lay, here in Corioli, 
At a poor man's house ; he us'd me kindly : 
He cried to me : I saw him prisoner ; 
But then Aufidius was within my view, 
And wrath o'erwhelm'd my pity. I request you 
To give my poor host freedom. 

Com. O, well begg'd. 

Were he the butcher of my son, he should 
Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus. 

Lartius. Marcius, his name? 

Cor. By Jupiter, forgot : — 

I am weary ; yea, my memory is tir'd. — 
Have we no wine here ? 

Com. Go we to our tent. 

The blood upon your visage dries ; 'tis time 
It should be look'd to. Come. 

How perfectly that "By Jupiter, forgot" conveys 
the complete physical weariness of the man, how 
admirable it is as a close in a scene of characteriza- 
tion, but how completely it lets down the action 
of the scene. Here, for the moment, Shakespeare's 

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steadily increasing interest in characterization be- 
comes so absorbing as to make him forget that for 
the bulk of his audience the action of his scene was 
still of prime importance. The appeal of Volumnia 
to Coriolanus which turns him from his proposed 
attack on Rome is supposed in the play to have a 
persuasive power which many a reader or auditor 
has not recognized. Yet this failure of a speech 
or scene to produce just the effect with which it is 
accredited by the dramatist is most unusual in the 
later work of Shakespeare. The tendency, too, of 
the main characters to indulge in long speeches is 
also noteworthy, for that tendency has been decreas- 
ing as Shakespeare's work matured. It is strik- 
ing, also, that in this play the dramatist's imagina- 
tion seems more restrained than is usual with him; 
many of the best speeches, for instance, that of Corio- 
lanus offering his services to Aufidius (IV, 5) and 
the yielding of Coriolanus to the appeal of Volumnia 
(V, 3) in the scene just referred to, repeat Plutarch, 
Shakespeare's source, almost word for word. In 
sharp contrast to all this, however, the original ma- 
terial has in places been rearranged for greater dra- 
matic effect, and the play lacks neither scenes of power 
nor passages of deep insight into character. Nor 
is it possible to say that this contradictoriness of 
effect results from some hasty revision, careful in 
places and neglectful in others, for faults and merits 
alike are part of the very texture of the play, 
u [ 289 ] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

Indeed, is not the effect of Coriolanus in itself 
dubious? Here is a story as single in its interest 
as that of Romeo and Juliet or Othello; all interest 
concentres on Coriolanus. What is he? A man 
who reveals at our first sight of him an intense pride 
of rank and an almost uncontrollable temper. And 
what else for some three acts does the play tell us 
with marked emphasis, except that he is a courageous 
and splendid fighter? When, too, because unable 
to control his temper, he has unwittingly lent him- 
self to the machinations of Sicinius and Brutus and 
has been banished, does he bide his time till the large 
party of friends he has in Rome can bring him back? 
Not at all. Strive to palliate his conduct as we 
may, he is at heart the basest of human creatures, 
a man ready to sell his country from the mere desire 
for personal revenge. What controls him, too, at 
the crises in his life — first, when he must return 
to beg pardon from the people for his insults, and, 
secondly, when he is asked to withdraw his troops 
from before Rome? Merely personal affection for 
his wife and mother. He is no architect of his own 
fortunes, no ruler of his own fate, and one does not 
feel any large measure of sorrow when he is struck 
down by the angry Volscians whose confidence he 
certainly has betrayed. He never rises above the 
immediate emotion. What curious material for the 
hero of a play, — for he is the hero in the sense that 
he is the central figure. He has none of the elements 

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of popular appeal of Henry V y or even of Richard 
III. He is that poorest of human products, a creature 
so uncontrolled and with so little knowledge of his 
real self that he has not the strength to be mainly 
good or mainly bad. Contrast his popular appeal 
with that of the other two plays of single story. Ro- 
meo and Juliet has two exceedingly attractive central 
figures, and their story and their emotions are the 
most permanently interesting for the public of any 
which exist. Who is there who cannot somewhat 
enter into sympathetic understanding of Othello? 
Surely jealousy, which this strongly attractive central 
figure feels, was no exclusive possession of the Eliza- 
bethans. But Coriolanus is a tragedy of pride of 
birth. Under any conditions it must appeal to only 
a small portion of the audience. It would seem that 
Shakespeare must have realized this was just the 
story which needed contrasting strands of interest if 
it were to be carried to popular success. Yet he did 
not supply them. Or was he experimenting, trying 
to see what could be done for his public with a figure 
which he knew for them was essentially uninteresting ? 
Perhaps we shall have more light on this play if 
we look at the other three plays of the final group. 
Is it not a little curious that, after writing mainly 
tragedies from 1601 to 1608, Shakespeare, between 
1608 and his retirement from the stage in 1611, should 
write chiefly plays of a highly romantic order? The 
possible exception, Henry VIII, is a chronicle play 

[291] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

of the old-fashioned type. Why this reversion 
to an earlier mood? The cause is, I believe, very 
commonplace, but effective. About 1608 the English 
public evidently experienced one of those revulsions 
from dramatic scrutiny of the graver or grimmer 
sides of life such as the public knows periodically. 1 
Ten years ago, for instance, we were flooded with 
plays that held up for our scrutiny the sadder and 
the seamier sides of life. As a public we forced these 
plays off the stage by our delight in the mere romantic 
story-telling that came in among the novels and 
by our satisfaction with the adaptations promptly 
made from these novels. I can remember when 
the New York managers declared it not worth while 
to read a manuscript of a play adapted from a novel. 
Who brought the change ten years ago ? You, reader, 
and I, and the many others who make the hydra- 
headed composite called the public ; because when 
somebody risked publishing some very romantic 
stories of adventure, we bought them by tens of 
thousands and so led somebody else to risk presenta- 
tion of one of these stories as a play. Then we flocked 
so greedily to see this play that the deluge of bad 
adaptation of poor fiction which has followed was let 
loose. It is certainly a very striking fact that not 
only did Beaumont and Fletcher, about 1608 or 1609, 

1 For the probable work of Beaumont and Fletcher in fostering 
this change see The Influence of Beaumont and Fletcher on Shake- 
tpeare, A. H. Thorndike (1901). 

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LATE EXPERIMENTATION 

come into prominence writing plays of an intensely 
romantic order, but that just as Shakespeare shifted 
from his tragedies to romantic comedy, Thomas Mid- 
dleton shifted from realistic studies, in the comedy of 
manners, of the seamy side of London life, to very 
romantic stories. It is perhaps, worth noting, too, 
that that other arch-realist, Ben Jonson, left play- 
writing in 1614 for a long term of years, during which 
he was working upon masks only. It looks very 
much as if we faced another illustration of the fact 
that no dramatist, however great, can produce wholly 
out of relation to his audience. What makes it seem, 
perhaps, even more likely that Shakespeare's change 
was not wholly free, is that these later comedies have 
an underlying gravity of tone far different from the 
three great comedies considered in Chapter VI. He 
does not really change : like the perfect host, he 
merely tries to subdue his mood to that of his guests. 
Yet detail after detail in these late plays show 
that he was not as flexible nor as sympathetic with 
the moods of his audience as heretofore. For in- 
stance, compare his treatment of the story of Imogen 
in Cymbeline l with the handling of the story of Clau- 

1 It is, perhaps, worth noting, as bearing on what was said in 
Chapter VII about the way in which fact and fiction, history and 
legend, had all become for Shakespeare by 1602 simply so much 
raw material from which a careful study of character might be 
made, that this very interesting play is about equally compounded 
of parts from Holinshed, the chronicler, and a tale which appears, 
in one form, as the ninth novel of the second day in Boccaccio's 
Decameron. 

[293] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

dio and Hero in Much Ado about Nothing. In Cym- 
beline the story which might easily have become 
a tragedy holds the central place, and the best char- 
acterization goes into the figures who make it. Study 
the emphasis in Much Ado about Nothing and it is 
clear that the Hero and Claudio story is steadily 
subordinated to the scenes which make for enter- 
tainment and amusement and that its figures are 
the most lightly characterized of all. Moreover, 
note that in Much Ado about Nothing the audience is 
carefully kept so informed that even while the people 
on the stage suffer for the wronged Hero, the audience 
knows that Hero will be righted. In the story of 
Posthumus and Imogen the audience is, till the 
last scene, by no means so sure of the ending. No- 
tice, also, the break in the middle of Cymbeline. We 
hear early of the disappearance of the two sons of 
the king, but we never see them until the third scene 
of the third act. The fact is, of course, that we 
have in a sense reached the climax of the Posthumus- 
Imogen story at the end of Act II, when the former 
discovers, as he thinks, Imogen's unfaithfulness. We 
shift in this third act our interest somewhat, or at 
least we divide it between Imogen and the group 
of dwellers in the cave, even as, more markedly, mid- 
way in The Winter's Tale, we drop the story of Her- 
mione and Leontes and take up the story of Florizel 
and Perdita. Yet so interestingly is the transition 
made in Cymbeline that, as one reads, it is usually 
' [ 294 ] 



LATE EXPERIMENTATION 

passed unnoticed. Seeing the play, one is conscious 
of a diffusion of interest in the last three acts as con- 
trasted with the singleness of purpose in Acts I and II. 

Cymbeline is, however, noteworthy among these late 
plays as showing both that even at the end of his career 
Shakespeare held, in spite of Coriolanus, to the princi- 
ple that story is of prime importance in dramatic com- 
position, and also that if he wished, he could work even 
at this late day with the greatest possible deftness. 
No student of dramatic composition who is struggling 
to bring a play of many strands to a perfect close should 
fail to study very carefully the relation of the last scene 
of all in Cymbeline to the whole play. As Professor 
Wendell has pointed out, 1 there are some twenty-four 
distinct situations in the denouement clearly and effec- 
tively developed to an interesting close in which every- 
body has been accounted for. This is as it should be 
in any straightforward story-telling for the stage. 

There has been, of course, endless discussion as 
to the real purpose of Shakespeare in writing The 
Tempest. Did he, or did he not, have some subtle 
meaning in Caliban and his other figures? Is the 
play an allegory of life? Such attempts to give the 
play a deeper meaning than have the other plays 
are natural enough. How could a man of nearly fifty 
who for more than twenty years had been search- 
ing the hearts of men and presenting to the public 
the results of his scrutiny, fail to think deeply on 

1 William Shakespeare, Barrett Wendell, pp. 358-361. 

[295] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

human life? How could he help letting something 
of his thought find expression in the figures of his 
late plays even if the prevailing purpose was that 
of the mere story-teller? Such momentary glimpses 
of the wider vision of the dramatist are nearly in- 
evitable in the late work of almost any matured 
dramatist of power, but they do not necessarily 
mean either a cryptogram or a theory of philosophy. 
The very simple immediate conditions from which 
The Tempest grew Mr. Sidney Lee has well stated : — 
"In the summer of 1609 a fleet bound for Virginia, 
under the command of Sir George Somers, was over- 
taken by a storm off the West Indies and the ad- 
miral's ship, the ' Sea-Venture/ was driven on the 
coast of the hitherto unknown Bermuda Isles. There 
they remained ten months, pleasurably impressed 
by the mild beauty of the climate, but sorely tried 
by the hogs which overran the island and by mysterious 
noises which led them to imagine that spirits and devils 
had made the island their home. Somers and his 
men were given up for lost, but they escaped from 
Bermuda in two boats of cedar to Virginia in May, 
1610. The sailors 7 arrival created vast public ex- 
citement in London. At least five accounts were 
soon published of the shipwreck and of the mysterious 
island, previously uninhabited by man, which had 
proved the salvation of the expedition. ' A Discovery 
of the Bermudas/ otherwise called the l He of Divels/ 
written by Sylvester Jourdain or Jourdan, one of 

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LATE EXPERIMENTATION 

the survivors, appeared as early as October. A second 
pamphlet describing the disaster was issued by the 
Council of the Virginia Company in December, and 
a third by one of the leaders of the expedition, Sir 
Thomas Gates. Shakespeare, who mentions the ' still 
vexed Bermoothes' (I, 1, 229), incorporated in ' The 
Tempest ' many hints from Jourdain, Gates, and the 
other pamphleteers. The references to the gentle 
climate of the island on which Prospero is cast away, 
and to the spirits and devils that infested it, seem 
to render its identification with the newly discovered 
Bermudas unquestionable. But Shakespeare incor- 
porated the result of study of other books of travel. 
The name of the god Setebos whom Caliban worships 
is drawn from Eden's translation of Magellan's ' Voyage 
to the South Pole' (in the 'Historie of Travell,' 1577), 
where the giants of Patagonia are described as wor- 
shipping a ' great devil they call Setebos.' No source 
for the complete plot has been discovered, but the 
German writer, Jacob Ayrer, who died in 1605, 
dramatized a somewhat similar story in ' Die Schone 
Sidea,' where the adventures of Prospero, Ferdinand, 
Ariel, and Miranda are roughly anticipated. English 
actors were performing in Nuremberg, where Ayrer 
lived, in 1604 and 1606, and may have brought re- 
ports of the piece of Shakespeare. Or perhaps both 
English and German plays had a common origin in 
some novel that has not yet been traced." l 

1 Life of William Shakespeare, S. Lee, pp. 252-253. 

[297] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

That is, The Tempest was primarily a play written 
to take advantage of a necessarily ephemeral interest 
in the shipwreck of certain Britishers on the Bermuda 
isles. Naturally, Shakespeare particularly made use 
of the rumor that the islands were haunted by spirits 
and devils. Considering carefully the dramatic pos- 
sibilities of the different groups which make the 
story, one sees, I think, that no group is developed 
to its full extent, but rather that the different groups 
exist in order to give needed variety and to pro- 
vide contrasting opportunities for Ariel and his crew 
to play tricks upon now this group and now that. 
Early we start, with Ferdinand and Miranda, a love 
story that might easily lead to many complications, 
but it drops into the background. The plan of Cali- 
ban, Stephano, and Trinculo to kill Prospero and 
Miranda might easily result in a number of scenes; 
it produces one in which they are nearly routed by 
the fairies. The group of shipwrecked royalty might 
easily provide much more story and incident than 
it does. Now, inasmuch as we know from preced- 
ing analyses, how deftly Shakespeare could develop 
and interweave two or more strands of story, giving 
to each its full development, either he is indifferent 
here or his purpose was not primarily to tell the 
story of any one of these groups, nor even a com- 
posite story involving them all. 

On the other hand, play The Tempest as a fairy 
tale, and watch the result. Present that opening 

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LATE EXPERIMENTATION 

scene of the shipwreck so that it means the breaking 
up of the real world, a passing into the unseen ; and 
then, not emphasizing the humanity of the figures 
of the play, give Caliban prominence as a mere mon- 
ster; play with particular emphasis the scenes in 
which Prospero talks of his magic power and the 
scenes demonstrating that gift; fill the stage, not 
with visible fairies in gauze dresses, dancing ballets, 
but with voices coming from above, below, to right, 
to left, with possibly a rush of light figures now and 
then across the stage, and I believe we have the 
right presentation of the play. It is, as always with 
Shakespeare, a story play, but this time a fairy story. 
Yet present The Tempest as we may, once more we 
seem to have left the close interweaving of the earlier 
plays, the minute care for structure. 

What is one to think technically of The Winter's 
Tale, so perfect in its atmospheres, — of gloom in the 
first part, of careless gayety in the second? Why 
should a play in most respects so perfect, apparently 
wantonly disregard a fundamental fact of dramatic 
composition known, as we have seen, to Christopher 
Marlowe twenty years before? I mean, of course, 
the law that to shift interest in the middle of a play 
is always undesirable. We saw Marlowe transcend- 
ing it in Edward II by disregarding historical se- 
quence, and by careful preparation. There is never 
a performance of The Winter's Tale in which this 
curious shift of interest from Hermione and Leontes 

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DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

to Florizel and Perdita is not noted, and as a real 
blot on something which would otherwise be a pure 
artistic pleasure. Xo dramatic justification for it 
has yet been discovered. 

Wherever we turn, then, among these four plays, 
we are conscious of change or puzzling conditions. 
We confront in Coriolanus and in The Winter's Tale 
dramatic methods strangely in contrast to those 
to which Shakespeare has accustomed us; we find 
that even such delightful reading as Cymbeline and 
The Tempest, when acted, produces a certain dis- 
satisfaction. I believe the difficulties with Cym- 
beline and The Tempest can be done away with by 
the idea I have reiterated, namely, that the Eliza- 
bethans, taking them purely as stories, were satisfied 
or delighted, while we, looking for some central in- 
terest or some central character, find them less satis- 
factory in action than when read. But are the other 
two plays to be accounted experimentation or grow- 
ing indifference to the desires of an audience? In 
connection with this query it is interesting to con- 
sider the careers of two such contrasting figures as 
Henrik Ibsen and A. W. Pinero. In each case a 
period of early experimentation was followed by 
a time of admirable technique which accompanied 
a naturally firmer and deeper presentation of char- 
acter, and there followed on these two stages a third 
sharply contrasted with the second. It is as if in 
the plays of Ibsen from The Lady of the Sea onward, 

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LATE EXPERIMENTATION 

he broke loose from dramatic convention and said, 
"Let me tell my story in the easiest way for me which 
yet makes possible perfect characterization. " And 
in Iris and Letty of Mr. Pinero one misses, in that 
curious epilogue to Letty and in the dependence in Iris 
on the lapse of time between Acts III and IV, much 
of his old care in dramatic construction. It is as 
if both these men said : "To construct carefully is neces- 
sary for the most exacting critics in my audience ; it 
is necessary in order to satisfy me artistically; but 
I see that my audience, absorbed in story as it is, 
and mesmerized to complete acceptance of my figure, 
if the character is well done within the scene, is much 
more easily satisfied. I, too, will be satisfied with 
as little structure as the greater part of my audience. 
It will give me more time for characterization within 
the scene." Or is this change in all these cases, 
instead of a growing cynicism, a spirit of bold ex- 
perimentation resulting from a realization that in- 
asmuch as the dramatic laws could not find expres- 
sion without the individual worker, a more daring 
attitude toward dramatic composition may reveal 
that simpler ways, if rightly handled, are just as good 
as more complicated? There is, of course, no final 
statement to be made on this for Shakespeare, but 
it is certainly significant that Fletcher, who in 1600 
was just coming into popularity, is noted for his de- 
pendence, not upon his characterization as a whole, 
but rather upon his very effective development of 

[301] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

the single scene. On the whole, it seems wisest to call 
all these years, 1608-1612, mature experimentation. 

By 1611 Shakespeare had sold his shares in the 
Globe and the Blackfriars theatres and was retir- 
ing to New Place, Stratford, for five years of life as 
a country gentleman. Different dramatic conditions, 
signified by the change in public taste in plays, were 
arising. Shakespeare may have foreseen, so sen- 
sitive had he been to his public, that it was becoming 
more and more responsive, not to the play as a whole, 
but to the immediate effect, a condition that char- 
acterizes the public in the years from 1615 to 1640. 
He may even have felt the rivalry, for the public 
is fickle, of some of the younger men. Does not 
the large amount of suspected collaboration or re- 
vision of other men's work in the years 1600-1608, 
as compared with the period 1594-1600, point in 
the same direction? Grant that, in order to meet 
the exacting demands on his time of such compli- 
cated dramatic problems as Hamlet, Lear, Macbeth, 
and Antony and Cleopatra, Shakespeare made up 
the amount of production expected from him an- 
nually by his company, by collaborating or revising 
in Troilus and Cressida, Timon, Pericles, and even 
Measure for Measure, or grant that in them he yielded 
to the natural desire of certain dramatists and his 
own company in particular that he should lend the 
spell of his name to these plays. In either case 
the relative successes, at least, of these revised or 

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LATE EXPERIMENTATION 

genuinely collaborative plays, as well as many of 
the successes of his contemporaries, must have made 
Shakespeare see that, so far as popular acclaim was 
concerned, he could satisfy his standards of char- 
acterization with far less deft structure and pervasive 
artistry. What is more natural for a man who has 
sounded the depths of human feeling in the tragedies, 
and has faced successfully the most complicated 
problems of technique, than that he should, as the 
public interest forces him to return to an earlier 
romantic mood, both experiment in technical prob- 
lems, and in his mere story-telling, though it steadily 
shows all of his old mastery of character and at times 
all of his old knowledge of his audience, grow a little 
more personal in phrase, and somewhat careless as 
to the minute details of technique which had helped 
to give him his supreme position? 

It is certainly interesting that all these four plays, 
though two at least, The Winter's Tale and The Tem- 
pest, were decidedly successful in their own day, 
are but rarely revived. Does not that look as if 
their success depended more upon special conditions 
in the audience of their time than upon permanent 
elements of successful appeal when presented on the 
stage? It is doubtful how far even the master of 
technique may break free from the principles he 
has toilsomely acquired ; it is indubitable that, what- 
ever his success when he does break through, his ex- 
perimentation forms no excuse for ignorance of these 

[303] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

same principles by a beginner. He who builds for 
the moment may construct as did the contemporaries 
of Shakespeare, may have as little artistic conscience 
as Dekker or Chapman, but he who builds for pos- 
terity must keep his standards unswervingly as high 
as did Shakespeare between 1595 and 1608 in the 
uncollaborative work. After all, even genius does 
not so much create the laws of a literary form as 
reveal them. Fundamentally, the laws are deter- 
mined, not so much by the practice of the genius as by 
the relations of the public to the particular form. 

After this careful technical consideration of the 
greater part of Shakespeare's plays how can we 
maintain that this man had no idea of art for art's 
sake? Grant that in the last three or four years 
of his writing he grew weary, even became perhaps 
a little irritated with the unappreciativeness of the 
great part of his audience, which could not discern 
the subtleties by which he gained his best artistic 
effects and surpassed the men whom they, probably, 
too often held his peers, nevertheless we have seen 
him steadily, from 1598 to 1608, for ten long years, 
fighting the fight to combine in his plays the largest 
degree of public favor with the highest degree of 
artistic accomplishment. If he had no feeling for 
his art as an art and for its dignity, why did he wait 
till after 1608 before he relaxed his structure and 
took the easier way in play- writing ? One has only 
to turn to the pages of these other dramatists who 

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LATE EXPERIMENTATION 

surrounded him, who had their successes in their 
own time and who fyave their deserved following of 
readers even to-day, to see that what most distin- 
guishes Shakespeare from them is not simply a pro- 
founder knowledge of human life, — theirs is some- 
times as profound as his for the moment, though 
not like him sustainedly, — but the sense he leaves in 
the best of his plays of some underlying artistic ideal 
which brings those plays to a roundness and a com- 
pleteness artistically almost never seen in the work 
of these other men. Remember, too, that it was he 
who wrote of 

Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, 
With what I most enjoy, contented least, 

and remember that he is absolutely the only person 
in the entire list of so-called Elizabethan dramatists 
who raises pure farce to the level of literature. This he 
did in The Comedy of Errors, The Taming of the Shrew, 
and The Merry Wives of Windsor. Could any man 
do that who did not know the mood the lines I have 
just quoted convey? Who better knows that mood 
than the man who loves and respects his art for his 
art's sake? 

The significance, the very great significance, for 
Shakespeare's rapid growth as a dramatist, of the 
freedom with which he could use whatever came 
to his hand that was not the property of some rival 
company, must at last be evident. At a time when, 
x [ 305 ] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

as we have seen, plot was everything for the public 
in a play, conceive the difference it would have made 
in the productiveness of even Shakespeare himself 
had he been obliged first to spin his story, then to 
characterize it carefully, next to fit it to the con- 
ditions of his audience and of his stage, and finally 
to inform it with the spirit of poetry which came 
to be the final stamp he placed upon his work. Of 
course, with no dramatist is there just that sequence 
in composition: the processes run together; but 
even he who has tried to write one play can attest 
that conceiving his story was the most time-con- 
suming process of all. One of the foremost English 
dramatists told the writer recently that when once 
he had schemed his story and could begin to see 
his characters in the definite situations of his play, 
the mere writing of the dialogue took but a short 
time. The first stage of all to-day, finding the story, 
was for Shakespeare, as we have seen in almost every 
play of his, no real task at all. For him the first 
stage was judging what the story needed to make 
it dramatically effective for his audience. 

The importance for any dramatist of the conditions 
of his stage, the practice of Shakespeare illustrates. 
We have seen that the curious arrangement, as it 
seems to us, of outer, inner, upper, and back stage 
made perfectly possible a rapid succession of scenes, 
impossible for us at the present day, thus allowing 
that fourth act of Antony and Cleopatra to produce 

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LATE EXPERIMENTATION 

a totally different impression from the misleading 
one it gives upon our modern stage with its neces- 
sarily long waits for the shifting of scenes, its ex- 
cisions, or its rearrangements. I could wish very 
much that what I have been pointing out might 
make a reader feel that to tamper with the order 
of Shakespeare's scenes in the plays written after 
he had attained mastery of his art is, dramatically, 
utterly unpardonable. Condense we must at times, 
because of the cumbersomeness of this scenery-ridden 
modern stage, but we may condense with discretion 
and success. One point which I have been steadily 
trying to make is that in the great majority of his 
plays Shakespeare consciously aimed at a total effect 
from the thoughtful and skilled handling of a multi- 
tude of details. Change his order, cut out whole 
scenes, and the very effects for which even Shake- 
speare labored become impossible. 

I need not dwell upon the effect of the absence 
of elaborate scenery in producing the descriptive 
quality of Shakespeare's plays, nor need I emphasize 
probably, that the relatively small size of most of 
the theatres and the use of a stage thrust out far 
into the pit made possible a certain intimacy and 
delicacy of effect which did much to offset the fact 
that the theatres were open to the sky and not 
so easy to hear in as our own theatres. One some- 
times wonders that the Elizabethan audience was 
sensitive enough to enjoy the scenes of quiet poetical 

[307] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

monologue or of delicate touches of characteriza- 
tion, but one wonders no longer after seeing a careful 
revival of one of these plays, — not simply the curious 
archaeological botches which are too often palmed 
off on an unsuspecting public as Elizabethan stages. 
Some years ago, when Ben Jonson's Silent Woman was 
revived at Harvard University, the professional actors, 
when they first saw the wide expanse of undecorated 
stage and the eager pittites sitting close up to the 
very edge of it, almost refused to carry on their work. 
They said : ' l These people are too close ; we have 
nothing to set our imaginations afire. All this will 
chill us inevitably into tameness." But at the end 
of the first act, to which they had been forced, they 
came off tingling with enthusiasm and delight be- 
cause, as one of them said: "Why, I have never 
known anything like this. There are no footlights 
to get over, there is no proscenium arch to frame 
us in. As quick as I do anything the audience comes 
back at me with a response. Those old fellows cer- 
tainly knew the right conditions for the actor." A 
slight tendency in the last few years to produce plays 
less elaborately, to let the play depend more on its 
text and the actors who interpret it, is but a return 
to that stage which gave us the best drama that 
we have ever had and which affected advantageously 
the work of Shakespeare himself. I am not urging 
a return to Elizabethan stage conditions, but that 
the plays of any period can be judged accurately 

[308] 



LATE EXPERIMENTATION 

only under the stage conditions for which they were 
written, and that we should not to-day, both in revivals 
and in plays of the present, swamp what is essential 
and distort the intended effect by an over-elaborate 
presentation. 

And the public ! Shakespeare seems to have had 
the genius for meeting their interests which to-day 
marks the great editors. To just what extent he led 
and to what extent he followed in the vogue of the 
chronicle history, farce, and the later romantic plays, 
it is now impossible to say, but we know that his 
first real success came in skilful compliance with 
the fondness of the public of 1590-1600 for erotic 
verse ; that there are striking resemblances between, 
for instance, the Philaster of Beaumont and Fletcher, 
and his own Cymbeline ; and that at the time when 
As You Like It was making such a success there 
were two plays called The Downfall and The Death 
of Robert Earl of Huntington, which showed a crude 
use of woodland scenes suggestive of those of the 
Duke and his followers in Shakespeare's play. Thus 
one might trace analogue after analogue between 
his work and that of the other men who surround 
him or precede him. To what extent he was creditor 
and debtor we shall now never know. The impor- 
tant point is that in every case he " imitates inimi- 
tably " something which thus becomes in the highest 
degree worthy of imitation. 

Shakespeare's public permitted at first a slowness 

[309] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

of exposition which to-day we find irksome ; it was 
responsible for his curious occasional recapitulation, 
as in Lear and Romeo and Juliet; it gave him a license 
for monologue and poetic description which we to- 
day do not sanction. But the same sympathetic 
regard for the likings and habits of mind of his audi- 
ences which made Shakespeare comply to this extent, 
carried him from the immediately to the permanently 
significant in the relation of the public to a play. 
Seeing that comic relief made his plays more acceptable 
to his public Shakespeare provided it and thereby 
added something permanently effective for the Anglo- 
Saxon mind. Unless reiteration be of no avail, I 
have made evident that not merely to Shakespeare, 
but to all the Elizabethan playwrights, the drama 
was the art of the story-teller, not of the char- 
acterizer or of the poet except in a secondary degree. 
That largely accounts for the failure of the novel 
to develop in the days of Elizabeth and James, and 
if we may go on and say that for the great bulk of 
humanity the drama will always remain the art 
of the story-teller, we shall understand perhaps better 
than we have before why with the rise of the novel 
in the early part of the eighteenth century the English 
drama fell decade by decade into an increasingly 
degraded condition until it became a mere mummer 
and jester of His Majesty the People. We shall 
perhaps understand better, too, the real meaning 
of Shakespeare's development and shall be able more 

[310] 



LATE EXPERIMENTATION 

sensibly to appreciate his plays, judging them from 
the standpoint of their own day and not from our 
own. Perhaps, also, we shall begin to see why some 
suspect that as the novel, after its superb accom- 
plishments in England for two centuries, peters out 
into that flabby inanity of the modern magazine, 
the storiette, the much older art which no time or 
change has been able to kill, the drama, is in sight 
of a new period of rich and significant development. 

Shakespeare's experience with his audiences of 
course revealed to him the permanent principles 
of dramatic composition. It showed that mere fable, 
story, is not enough in play-writing. For the best 
results there must be clear exposition, which depends 
on underlying unity, — which in turn depends on 
carefully considered structure. That structure, in 
its turn, rests on proportion and emphasis. The 
fable or story before it can become, dramatically 
speaking, plot must be so proportioned as to tell 
itself clearly and effectively within the space of two 
or two and a half hours; and this exposition must 
be emphasized with regard to the tastes and preju- 
dices of the audience, as well as the artistic pur- 
pose of the dramatist, if it is on the one hand to 
win success with the public, and on the other to be 
differentiated as high comedy, tragedy, melodrama, 
or farce, and not remain a hodge-podge. Shake- 
speare's practice proves, too, in regard to the under- 
lying principles of dramatic composition that a play 

[311] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

succeeds best when a central figure or group of figures, 
or a unifying idea, focusses the attention of the spec- 
tator. Shakespeare's experience shows, moreover, that 
a play must have movement, gained by initial swift, 
clear exposition and a skilful use of suspense and 
climax. And finally, this body of farces, chronicle 
plays, comedies, and tragedies demonstrates that 
in drama characterization is the ladder by which 
we mount from lower to higher in the so-called forms, 
and that a predetermined point of view is the means 
by which the dramatist so emphasizes his material 
as to differentiate it in form. 

How normal, too, the whole development ! Domi- 
nated, at first, by the literary and the dramatic stand- 
ards of the day, influenced in comedy and tragedy by 
the leaders of his time, Lyly and Marlowe, Shake- 
speare felt his way haltingly through the beginnings 
of high comedy and through melodramatic presenta- 
tion of history to straight story-telling in A Mid- 
summer Night's Dream and The Merchant of Venice, 
and by his thorough grasp on character in Romeo 
and Juliet perhaps unconsciously discovered tragedy. 
Is it not logical, too, that when other men were busily 
writing the comedy of manners, as was the case with 
Jonson and Middleton and even Thomas Dekker, 
or melodrama as with George Chapman or John 
Marston, Shakespeare accomplished most in the two 
forms which chiefly depend, not on mere story, but 
on characterization, and characterization often so 

[312] 



LATE EXPERIMENTATION 

subtle that it can be presented only by a master 
of technique? I refer, of course, to high comedy 
and to tragedy. In tragedy he simply has no rival 
in the English language. Within the field of ro- 
mantic high comedy he has but one real competitor, 
John Fletcher, and no peer. As Professor Schel- 
ling has said, Shakespeare " building on what he 
found, essaying no miracles, unerring master of every 
possibility of his art, yet contravening no natural 
law, reached what had seemed the unattainable 
not by the cataclysm of irresistible genius and inspired 
haphazard, but by the orderly processes of growth." * 
It is time we ceased to talk as if he who writes 
successfully for the public must be competent only 
for a low level of literary work. It is equally true 
that, incited thereto as we are by clever advertising, 
we should stop rating as literature whatever the 
public acclaims. The dramatic artist sees in his 
environment what is significant or may be made 
significant for his particular public. The great drama- 
tist so presents what in his own day, or the day 
he chooses to depict, is permanently significant that 
its significance becomes permanently recognized. 
Neither task may a dramatist accomplish if he does 
not enter into the minds of his audience and even 
as he writes regard their tastes, their prejudices, 
and their ideals. But there can be no content for 
his soul if in this writing he sacrifices the literary 

1 The English Chronicle Play, F. E. Schelling p. vii. 

[313] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

and the dramatic ideals which have come to him as 
an inheritance from his predecessors, and more partic- 
ularly as the results of his own years of toilsome 
devotion to his chosen task. In nothing does Shake- 
speare proclaim his genius more than in his repeated 
winning of popular acclaim for fulfilment of his artistic 
desires. His original equipment, as seen in the 
Shakespeare of 1590-1593, in its sensitiveness to im- 
pressions, its power of literary expression, and its 
human sympathy, was promising but not extraordinary. 
The fruit of the years of patient regard for the 
tastes and the ideas of his public, of toilsome endeavor, 
of constant striving in many forms toward clearer 
and clearer dramatic ideals, was the development of 
inborn capacity into genius and the primacy of the 
English drama. 



[314] 



APPENDIX 

CONTRACT FOR BUILDING THE FIRST FORTUNE THEATRE 

This indenture made the eighte day of Januarye, 1599, 
and in the two and fortyth yeare of the reigne of our sov- 
ereigne ladie Elizabeth, by the grace of God Queene of 
England, Fraunce and Ireland, defender of the fayth, &c. 
Between Phillipp Henslowe and Edward Allen of the par- 
ishe of St. Saviours in Southwark, in the countie of Surry, 
gentleman, on thone parte, and Peter Streete, citizen and 
carpenter of London, on thother parte, Witnesseth; that 
whereas the said Phillipp Henslowe and Edward Allen the 
day of the date hereof have bargained, compounded, and 
agreed with the said Peter Streete for the erectinge, build- 
inge, and setting up of a new House and Stage for a play- 
howse, in and uppon a certeine plott or peece of grounde 
appoynted out for that purpose, scituate and beinge near 
Goldinge lane in the parish of Saint Giles without Cripple- 
gate of London; to be by him the said Peter Streete or 
some other sufficient workmen of his providing and ap- 
poyntment, and att his propper costes and chardges, (for 
the consideration hereafter in these presents expressed) 
made, builded, and sett upp, in manner and form follow- 
ing : that is to saie, the frame of the said howse to be sett 
square, and to conteine fowerscore foote of lawful assize 
everye waie square, without, and fiftie five foote of like 

[315] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

assize square, everye waie within, with a good, suer, and 
stronge foundacion of pyles, brick, lyme, and sand, both 
withoute and within, to be wrought one foote of assize at 
the leiste above the ground; and the saide frame to con- 
teine three stories in heigth, the first or lower storie to 
conteine twelve foote of lawful assize in heighth, the sec- 
ond storie eleaven foote of lawful assize in heigth, and the 
third or upper storie to conteine nine foote of lawful assize in 
height. All which stories shall conteine twelve foot and a 
half of lawful assize in breadth throughoute, besides a 
juttey forwards in eyther of the saide two upper stories of 
tene ynches of lawful assize; with fower convenient divi- 
sions for gentlemens roomes, and other sufficient and con- 
venient divisions for twoopennie roomes; with necessarie 
seates to be placed and sett as well in those roomes as 
throughoute all the rest of the galleries of the said howse; 
and with suche like steares, conveyances, and divisions 
without and within, as are made and contryved in and to 
the late-erected play-howse on the Bancke in the said 
parish of Saint Saviours, called the Globe; with a stadge 
and tyreinge-howse, to be made, erected and sett upp within 
the saide frame: with a shadow or cover over the saide 
stadge; which stadge shall be placed and sett, as alsoe the 
stearcases of the saide frame, in such sorte as is prefigured 
in a plot thereof drawen ; and which stadge shall conteine in 
length fortie and three foote of lawfull assize, and in breadth 
to extende to the middle of the yarde of the said howse : 
the same stadge to be paled in belowe with goode stronge 
and sufficyent new oken boardes, and likewise the lower 
storie of the said frame withinsied, and the same lower 
storie to be alsoe laide over and fenced with stronge yron 

[316] 



APPENDIX 

pyles: And the said stadge to be in all other proportions 
contryved and fashioned like unto the stadge of the saide 
Playhouse called the Globe; with convenient windowes 
and lights glazed to the saide tireynge-howse. And the 
saide frame, stadge, and stearcases, to be covered with tyle, 
and to have a sufficient gutter of leade, to carrie and con- 
vey the water from the coveringe of the said stadge, to 
fall backwards. And alsoe all the saide frame and the 
stearcases thereof to be sufficyently enclosed without 
with lathe, lyme, and haire. And the gentlemens roomes 
and two-pennie roomes to be seeled with lathe, lyme, and 
haire ; and all the flowers of the saide galleries, stories, and 
stadge to be boarded with good and sufficient newe deale 
boardes of the whole thicknes, where neede shall be. 
And the said howse, and other thinges before mentioned to 
be made and doen, to be in all other contrivitions, convey- 
ances, fashions, thinge and thinges, effected, finished and 
doen, according to the manner and fashion of the saide 
howse called the Globe; saveinge only that all the prin- 
cypall and maine postes of the saide frame, and stadge 
forward, shall be square and wrought palaster-wise, with 
carved proportions called Satiers, to be placed and sett on 
the topp of every of the same postes : and saveing alsoe that 
the saide Peter Streete shall not be charged with anie man- 
ner of paynteinge in or aboute the saide frame, howse, or 
stadge, or anie parte thereof, nor rendering the walles 
within, nor feelinge anie more or other roomes then the 
gentlemens roomes, twoo-pennie roomes, and stadge, 
before mentioned. Nowe thereuppon the said Peter Streete 
doth covenante, promise, and graunte for himself, his ex- 
ecutors, and administrators, to and with the said Phillip 

[317] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

Henslowe, and Edward Allen, and either of them, and 
thexecutors, and administrators of them, by these presents, 
in manner and forme followinge, that is to say; That he 
the saide Peter Streete, his executors, or assigns, shall and 
will at his or their owne propper costes and chardges, well, 
workman-like, and substantially make, erect, sett upp, and 
fullie finishe in and by all thinges accordinge to the true 
meaninge of theis presents, with good stronge and sub- 
stancyall new tymber and other necessarie stuff, all the 
said frame and other works whatsoever in and uppon the 
saide plott or parcell of grounde, (beinge not by anie 
authoritie restrayned, and having ingres, egres, and regres 
to doe the same,) before the five and twenty th daye of 
Julie, next comeing after the date hereof. And shall alsoe 
att his or their like costes and chardges provide and find 
all manner of workmen, tymber, joysts, rafters, boords, 
dores, bolts, hinges, brick, tyle, lathe, Lyme, haire, sande, 
nailes, lead, iron, glass, workmanshipp and other thinges 
whatsoever which shall be needful, convenyent and neces- 
sarie for the saide frame and works and everie parte thereof : 
and shall alsoe make all the saide frame in every poynte 
for scantlings lardger and bigger in assize than the scant- 
lings of the timber of the saide new-erected howse called 
The Globe. .And alsoe that he the saide Peter Streete shall 
furthwith, as well by him selfe as by suche other and soe 
manie workmen as shall be convenient and necessarie, enter 
into and uppon the saide buildinges and workes, and shall 
in reasonable manner procede therein withoute anie wilfull 
detraction, untill the same shall be fully effected and fin- 
ished. In consideration of all which buildings and of all 
stuff and workmanshipp thereto belonginge, the said Philip 

[318] 



APPENDIX 

Henslowe, and Edward Allen, and either of them, for 
themselves, theire and either of theire executors and ad- 
ministrators, doe joyntlie and severallie covenante and 
graunte to and with the saide Peter Streete, his executors 
and administrators, by theis presents, that the saide Philip 
Henslowe, and Edward Allen, or one of them, or the execu- 
tors, administrators, or assigns of them or one of them, 
shall and will well and trulie paie or cause to be paide unto 
the saide Peter Streete, his executors or assignes, att the 
place aforesaid appoynted for the erectinge of the said 
frame, the full some of fower hundred and fortie poundes, 
of lawfull money of Englande, in manner and forme fallow- 
ings ; that is to saie, at suche tyme and whenas the tymber 
woork of the saide frame shall be raysed and sett upp by 
the saide Peter Streete, his executors or assignes, or within 
seaven daies then next followinge, twoo hundred and 
twentie poundes ; and att suche time and when as the said 
frame-work shall be fullie effected and finished as is afore- 
said, or within seaven daies then next following, thother 
twooe hundred and twentie poundes, withoute fraude or 
coven. Provided allwaies, and it is agreed betwene the 
said parties, that whatsoever some or somes of money 
the said Phillip Henslowe, or Edward Allen, or either of 
them, or the executors or assigns of them or either of 
them, shall lend or deliver unto the saide Peter Streete, his 
executors or assignes, or any other by his appoyntment 
or consent, for or concerninge the saide woork or anie parte 
thereof, or anie stuff thereto belonginge, before the raise- 
ing and setting upp of the saide frame, shall be reputed, 
accepted, taken and accoumpted in parte of the first pay- 
ment aforesaid of the saide some of fower hundred and fortie 

[319] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

poundes : and all such some and somes of money as they or 
anie of them shall as aforesaid lend or deliver between 
the razeing of the said frame and finishing thereof, and of 
all the rest of the said works, shall be reputed, accepted, 
taken and accourapted in parte of the laste payment afore- 
said of the same some of f ower hundred and f ortie poundes ; 
anie thinge above said to the contrary notwithstandinge. 
In witness whereof the parties abovesaid to theis present 
indentures interchangeably have sett their handes and seales. 
Yeoven the daie and yeare above-written. 1 

CONTRACT FOR BUILDING THE HOPE THEATRE 

Articles covenanted, granted, and agreements con- 
cluded and agreed upon this nyne and twentythe daie 
of August. Anno dmni, 1613, between Phillip Henslowe of 
the parish of St. Saviours in Southwarke within the coun- 
tye of Surrie Esquier and Jacob Maide of the parish of Saint 
Olaves in Southwarke aforesaide. waterman, on thone par- 
tie, and Gilbert Katherens of the said parish of St. Saviours 
in Southwarke, carpenter, on thother partie, as followeth, 
that is to saie. 

Imprimis, the saide Gilbert Katherens for him. his 
executors, administrators, and assignes, doth covenant, 
promise and graunt. to and with the saide Phillip Hens- 
lowe and Jacob Maide. and either of them, the executors, 
administrators and assignes of them and either of them, by 
theise presents, in manner and forme following, That he 
the saide Gilbert Katherens. his executors, administrators, 

1 Ma Tone's Shakespeare (1821),. Vol. Ill, Prolegomena,, pp. 338- 
3-43. 

[320] 



APPENDIX 

or assignes, shall and will at his or their own proper costes 
and charges uppon or before the last daie of November next 
ensuinge the daie of the date of these presents above- 
written, not onlie take downe or pull downe all that game 
place or house wherein beares and bulls have been hereto- 
fore usually bay ted, and also one other house or stable 
wherein bulls and horses did usuallie stande, sett, lyinge 
and beynge uppon or near the Banke syde in the saide 
parish of St. Saviours in Southwarke commonlie called or 
knowen by the name of the Beare garden, but shall also at 
his or their owne proper costes and charges uppon or before 
the saide last daie of November newly erect, builde, and 
sett up one other game place or plaie house fitt and con- 
venient in all thinges both for players to plaie in and for 
the game of beares and bulls, to be bay ted in the same ; and 
also a fitt and convenient tyre house and a frame to be 
carryed or taken away and to stande uppon tressels good 
substantiall and sufficient for the carrying and bearing of 
suche a stage ; and shall new builde erect and sett up again 
the saide plaie house or game place neere or uppon the 
saide place where the same game place did heretofore 
stande. And to builde the same of suche large compasse, 
forme, wideness, and height, as the plaie house called the 
Swan in the libertie of Paris Garden in the saide parishe of 
St. Saviours now is. And shall also builde two steare casses 
without and adjoyning to the saide playe house in suche 
convenient places as shal be most fitt and convenient for 
them to stande uppon, and of such largnes and height as the 
stear casses of the saide play house called the Swan now are 
or be. And shall also builde the heavens over the saide 
stage, to be borne or carried without any postes or sup- 
y [ 321 ] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

porters to be fixed or sett uppon the saide stage : and all 
gutters of leade needfull for the carry age of all such raine 
water as shall fall uppon the same, And shall also make 
two boxes in the lower most storie, fitt and decent for 
gentlemen to sitt in; And shall make the partitions be- 
tweene the roomes as they are at the saide play house called 
the Swan. And to make turned cullumes [columns] uppon 
and over the stage, And shall make the principalis and 
fore front of the saide plaie house of good and sufficient 
oken tymber, and no firr tymber to be putt or used in the 
lowermost or under stories, excepte the upright postes on 
the backe parte of the saide stories : all the bindinge joystes 
to be of oken tymber, the inner principall postes in the 
first storie to be twelve footes in height and tenn ynches 
square; the inner principall postes in the midall storie 
to be eight ynches square : the innermost postes in the 

upper storie to be seaven ynches square ; the postes 

in the first storie to be eight ynches square in the seconde 
storie seaven ynches square, and in the upper storie six 
ynches square. Also the brest summers in the lowermost 
storie to be nyne ynches deepe and seaven ynches in 
thicknes and in the midall storie to be eight ynches depe and 
six ynches in thicknes : the byndinge joistes of the first storie 
to be nyne and eight ynches in depth and thicknes, and in 
the midell storie to be viii and vii ynches in depth and thick- 
nes. Item, to make a good sure and sufficient foundacion 
of brickes for the saide playe house or game place and to 
make it xii ynches at the leaste above the grounde. Item 
to new builde erect and sett up the said bull house and 
stable with good and sufficient scantling tymber plankes 
and bordes and partitions, of that largenes and fittnes 

[322] 



APPENDIX 

as shall be sufficient to kepe and hold six bulls and three 
horses or geldinges, with rackes and mangers in the same. 
And also a lofer [louvre] or storie over the saide house as 
nowe it is. And shall also at his or their owne proper coste 
and charges new tyle with Englishe tyles all the upper roofe 
of the said playe house, game place, and bull house or 
stable. And shall finde and paie for at his like proper costes 
and charges all the lyme lears, sand, brickes, tyles, laths, 
nayles, workmanshippe and all other thinges needfull and 
necessarie for the full finishinge of the said playe house, bull 
house and stable And the saide playe house or game place 
to be made in all thinges and in suche forme and fashion 
as the said playhouse called the Swan, the scantling of the 
tymbers, tyles and foundations as is aforesaide, without 
fraud or covin. And the saide Phillip Henslowe and 
Jacob Maide and either of them for them thexecutors ad- 
ministrators and assignes of them and either of them, doe 
covenant and graunt to and with the saide Gilbert Kath- 
erens his executors administrators and assignes in manner 
and forme followinge, that is to saie, that the saide Gilbert 
or his assignes shall or may have and take to his or their use 
and behalfe not onlie all the tymber, benches, seates, slates, 
tyles, brickes, and all other thinges belonginge to the 
saide game place, bull house or stable, and also all suche 
old tymber whiche the saide Phillip Henslowe hath latlie 
bought being of an old house in Thames Street, London, 
whereof most parte is now lying in the yarde or backside 
of the said Beare garden. And also be satisfied and paid 
unto the saide Gilbert Katherens his executors adminis- 
trators or assignes for the doinge and finishinge of the 
workes and buildings aforesaid the sum of three hundred 

[323] 



DEVELOPMENT OF SHAKESPEARE 

and three score poundes of good and lawful monie of Eng- 
lande in manner and forme followinge, that is to saie, in 
hande at then sealing and delivery hereof three score 
poundes whiche the said Gilbert acknowledged himselfe 
by theyse presentes to have received. And moreover to 
paie every weeke weeklie duringe the six weekes unto the 
saide Gilbert or his assignes when he shall sett work- 
men to worke uppon or about the buildinge the premisses 
the somme of term poundes of lawfull monie of Englande 
to paie them their wages yf theyre wages doth amount 
unto so muche monie. And when the saide plaiehouse 
bull house and stable are reared, then to make up the saide 
wages one hundred poundes of lawfull monie of Englande, 
and to be paide imto the saide Gilbert Katherens or his 
assignes. And when the saide plaie house bull house and 
stable are reared, tyled. walled, then to paie unto the said 
Gilbert Katherens or his assignes one other hundred poimdes 
of lawfull monie of Englande And when the saide plaie 
house bull house and stable are fullie finished builded and 
done, in manner and forme aforesaide, then to paie unto 
the saide Gilbert Katherens or his assignes one other hun- 
dred poundes of lawfull monie of Englande, in full satis- 
facon and payment of the saide somme of ccc \xli. And 
to all and singuler the covenantee, grauntes, articles, and 
agreements, above in theise presentes contayned, whiche 
on the parte and behalf e of the saide Gilbert Katherens his 
executors administrators or assignes, are and ought to be 
observed, performed, fulfilled, and done, the saide Gil- 
bert Katherens bindeth him selfe. his executors, adminis- 
trators, and assignes. unto the saide Philipp Henslowe and 
Jacob Maide, and to either of them thexecutors admin- 

[324] 



APPENDIX 

istrators and assignes of them or either of them, bytheise 
presentes. In witness whereof the saide Gilbert Katherens 
hath hereunto sett his hande and seal the daie and yere 
first above written. 

The marke [G K.] of Gilbert Katherens. 1 

1 M alone' s Shakespeare (1821), Vol. Ill, Prolegomena, pp. 343- 
347. 



[325 J 



INDEX 



All's Well that Ends Well, 260, n. 
Antony and Cleopatra, 270-271. 
Aristotle on comedy, 224. 
Arraignment of Paris, The, 31. 
Arras, use of, 85-86. 
As You Like It, 240-253. 
Atmosphere, definition of, 30. 

B 

Beginnings in 1590, 33. 
Blackfriars Theatre, The, 38, 44. 
Bond of Richard Jones, 62. 
Borrowing of plots, advantage, 14. 
Boy Actors, 56-62. 
Bradley, A. C, quoted, 268, 276. 
Brodmeier, Dr. Cecil, 99, n. 
Brome, Richard, quoted, 82. 

G 

Campbell, Professor, quoted, 273. 
Chester Miracle Play, quoted, 229- 

230. 
Chronicle Plays, Chapter IV, 100- 

180. 
Climax, 25, 26. 
Collaboration, 15. 
Comedy of Errors, 134-140. 
Comedy of manners, 236. 
Comic, dramatic use of, 222-228. 
Companies, formation of, 55-56; 

in 1590, 10. 
Congreve, William, quoted, 231. 
Construction of Elizabethan 

stage, 67-99. 



Convocation House Yard, 46. 
Corbin, John, quoted, 72. 
Coriolanus, 286-291. 
Cost of plays, 63-64. 
Craigie, Mrs., quoted, 287. 
Curtain Theatre, The, 37, 48. 
Curtains on Elizabethan stage, 

83-98. 
Cymbeline, 92, 294-295. 

D 

Doors on Elizabethan stage, 77- 

83. 
Dramatic talent, definition of, 

100. , 
Du Me>il, Edelstand, quoted, 6. 

E 

Early Experimentation, Chapter 

III, 100-141. 
Edward II, 22. 

F 

Fleming, W. H., quoted, 181. 
Fortune Theatre, The, 37, 47, 48. 
Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, 
24, 25, 27. 

G 

Gates of London, 37. 
Globe Theatre, The, 51. 
Greene, Robert, quoted, 28. 

H 

Hamlet, quoted, 57, n., 260-283. 
Haughton, William, quoted, 36. 



[327] 



INDEX 



Heavens, The, on Elizabethan 

stage, 69-71. 
Henry IV, 156, 175. 
Henry V, 157. 
Henry VI, 147-151. 
Henry VIII, 90, 146. 
Heywood, Thomas, quoted, 17. 
High Comedy, Chapter VII, 221- 
254. 

Characteristics of, 237-240. 

Shakespeare's contribution to, 
240-253. 

vs. Low Comedy, 236. 
Holinshed, quoted, 166. 
Hope Theatre, The, 51. 
Hour of performances, 65. 



Imitation, 15. 

Instruction from theatre, 11. 



Jonson, Ben, quoted, 60. 
Julius Ccesar, 260-283. 

K 

King John, 154-156. 

King Lear, 260-283. 

Kyd, Thomas, quoted, 28, 32. 



Lancashire Witches, The, 87. 
Late Experimentation, Chapter 

VIII, 286-314. 
Lee, Sidney, quoted, 296. 
London, 1590-1600, 36-53. 
Love's Labour's Lost, 105-116. 
Lyly, John, quoted, 249. 



M 



Management, Theatrical, condi- 
tions of, 54. 

McCracken, Elizabeth, quoted, 
264. 

Measure for Measure, 260, n. 

Merchant of Venice, 210-218, 268- 
269. 

Meredith, George, quoted, 234. 

Merry Viives of Windsor, 221-222. 

Midsummer Night's Dream, 183- 
194. 

Moulton, R. G., quoted, 213. 

Much Ado about Nothing, 240- 
253. 

N 

Newington Butts Theatre, The, 
52. 



O 



Macbeth, 260-283. 

Malone, Edmund, quoted, 83. 



Othello, 260-283. 



Painted cloths, 96-98. 
Palaces, The River, 40-41. 
Pavy, Salathiel, lines on death of, 

60-61. 
Peele, George, quoted, 31. 
Pericles, 260, n. 

Pinero, Arthur, quoted, 3, 21, 100. 
Plays, Elizabethan, when pub- 
lished, 17, 18. 
Plotting, Early Experimentation 
in, Chapter III, 100-141. 
Mastery of, Chapter V, 181- 
220. 
Pre-Shakespearean characteriza- 
tion, 27-30. 
Chronicle plays, 144-146. 
Climax, 25-26. 
Dramatic use of the comic, 

228-234. 
Technique, 20-33. 
Use of suspense, 59-60. 



[328] 



INDEX 



Prices at theatres, 65-66. 
Public of 1590, Chapter I, 1-35. 

Not exacting, 13. 

Overstimulating, 12. 

Receptive, 10. 

Small, 8. 

R 

Rape of Lucrece, 102-103. 
Red Bull Theatre, The, 47. 
Reynolds, Dr. G. F., 99, n. 
Riccoboni, Madame, quoted, 243. 
Richard II, 152-154. 
Richard III, 149. 
Roberts, James, printer of pro- 
grammes, 45. 
Romantic reversion, 291-293. 
Romeo and Juliet, 92, 194-201. 
Rose Theatre, The, 49, 50, 52. 
Royce, Josiah, quoted, 15. 

S 

St. Gregory's, 45-46. 
St. Paul's, 44-45. 
Schelling, F. E., quoted, 313. 
Seating capacity of Elizabethan 

Theatre, 72-75. 
Sharers, in the companies, 620. 
Sidney, Sir Philip, quoted, 77, 79. 
Signs on Elizabethan stage, 76- 

80. 
Sophonisba, 93-99. 
Spanish Tragedy, The, 28-32. 
Stage of Shakespeare, Chapter II, 
36-99. 

Agreed characteristics, 69-70. 

Bull-rings, 69. 

Inn-yards, 68. 

Mooted questions, 70. 

Scaffold stages, 67. 
Story, importance of, 13. 
Strategy, in technique, 21. 
Swan Theatre, The, 50. 



Tactics, in technique, 21. 
Tamburlaine, 23, 26, 86, 259. 
Taming of the Shrew, 221-222. 
Tancred and Gismunda, 31, 84. 
Technique, absence of, before 

1585, 20. 
Tempest, The, 295-299. 
Temple Bar, date of construction, 

43, n. 
Tents on Elizabethan stage, 83. 
Theatre, The, 37, 48. 
Theatrical talent, definition of, 

100. 
Timon of Athens, 260, n. 
Titus Andronicus, 123-134. 
Tragedy, Chapter VII, 255-283. 

In Marlowe, 259. 

In Shakespeare primarily dra- 
matic story, 263-277. 

vs. tragic, 255. 
Traverse, 88-89, 95. 
Troilus and Cressida, 260, n. 
Tusser, Thomas, quoted, 58. 
Twelfth Night, 240-253. 
Two Gentlemen of Verona, 116- 
123. 

U 
Upper stage, use of, 75, 96. 



Venus and Adonis, 102. 



W 



Wendell, Barrett, quoted, 295. 
Wilmot, Robert, quoted, 31. 
Winter's Tale, 299. 
Writ to Richard Melyonek to 
take up boy actors, 58. 



[329] 



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